Inspired
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: A series of one shots involving Canada and Prussia or, rather, Matthew Williams and Gilbert Beilschmidt.
1. Take Me On The Floor

**Inspired**

_Each chapter is a small vignette inspired by a song, usually involving Canada (Matthew Williams) and Prussia (Gilbert Beilschmidt). Think of it as a series of one shots. There will be no lyrics at all; these are merely inspired by the songs, and may seem to have no connection at all. I will always post the title and artist for those who are curious, but seriously, do not worry about it. :D_

_This chapter is inspired by: Take Me On The Floor by The Veronicas._

**Take Me On The Floor**

Matthew cocked his hip against the bar and poured another drink down his throat. The pounding music throbbed through the air and he could feel the vibrations course through his body in shivering little pulses. The lights flashed harshly against his eyes in beat with the music and the overall effect was exhilarating. The bodies shifted constantly around him, brushing against each other as drinks were bought in twos and threes.

Matthew ordered yet another shot and turned his sights to the dance floor, scanning the crowd for someone, anyone, who could hold his attention for more than five minutes in his alcohol induced haze.

And then he saw him; leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed and lazily tapping his foot to the beat. He was strikingly pale in the dimness of the club, his black shirt and dark jeans only highlighting the effect. His hair was so light that the flickering colours of the lights washed the strands in their hues of blue and purple. The man was also searching the dance floor and soon their eyes met from across the room.

The man ran his eyes up and down Matthew in a blatant and predatory fashion, causing Matthew to knock back his shot in an attempt to cover his nervousness and nearly choke on the burning liquor. He could feel a blush staining his cheeks and fought the sudden racing of his heart when the man pushed off the pillar and stalked towards him.

Matthew turned back to the bartender and ordered two more drinks. The bartender raised an eyebrow but took the cash without comment.

"Hey," said the man loudly as he approached and casually placed a hand on the bar; successfully cornering Matthew. Matthew gulped lightly and passed one of the drinks to the man.

"Matthew," he said by way of introduction. The man grinned, taking the glass and clinking it against Matthew's in friendly greeting.

"Gilbert. I've never seen you here before."

"Never been here before," Matthew shrugged.

"And tonight?"

"Tonight I was lonely."

The grin shifted smoothly into a leer as Gilbert leant over him.

"Then you came to the right place."

Matthew sipped his drink shyly and looked up at the captivating man. The liquor and thumping bass were getting to him, but that was the point. That was the whole reason Matthew had grabbed a fistful of twenties and hailed a taxicab; it was for a good time. No expectations, no regrets; just some alcohol, a stranger, and a good time.

"I sure hope so," whispered Matthew slyly and Gilbert chugged his drink before slamming the tumbler on the bar and pulling him insistently towards the dance floor. Matthew had just enough time to swallow his own drink before being dragged off.

Gilbert led them into the centre of the crowd and grabbed his hips, suggestively pulling them closer before slipping his hands into Matthew's back pockets. Matthew threw his arms over the other man's shoulders and pressed their chests together. Gilbert bent over to whisper dirty words against his ear as they rocked their bodies to the beat of the music and Matthew felt his knees go weak. He threaded his fingers through Gilbert's flaxen hair in an effort to stop himself from falling.

More and more couples were disappearing into the darker corners of the club for wicked, sinful pleasures as the morning hours passed. Gilbert was licking and biting his way up Matthew's neck in the middle of the dance floor with little care for secrecy. Matthew pushed away only to bring their lips smashing together. Gilbert returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm and dragged his tongue along Matthew's bottom lip. He opened his mouth with a soft pleading sound never heard above the pounding music. Gilbert tangled their tongues together and brazenly slipped his hands underneath Matthew's shirt and scratched his fingernails against his bare, heated skin.

The two men broke apart, gasping, and searched each other's eyes for consent. Each knew what he wanted and could see the approval reflected there.

"My place or yours?" Panted Matthew.

"Both. In that order," grinned Gilbert. He twisted his finger through one of Matthew's belt loops and tugged him impatiently towards the exit. Matthew waved a grand, sweeping 'adieu' to the bartender and distracted couples before following Gilbert through the doors and into the night.

* * *

_These are an excuse for me to write short one shots that, hopefully, you can also enjoy. I will still be working on my other stories, and on more substantial posts, but sometimes I just need to write something short and sweet. Viola! Short or not, please take the time to review. Anonymous reviews are welcome. _

_Keep an eye out for more chapters and tell me what you think!_


	2. Too Little Too Late

**Inspired**

_This chapter was inspired by the song: Too Little Too Late by Metric._

**Too Little Too Late**

The ticking of the clock grated against every nerve in his body as he paced the front hallway. Every 'tic' was another worried fluttering in his chest, every 'toc' was another lonely sigh. The more time that elapsed, the more desperate rage he felt clawing up his throat.

How _dare_ he?

Matthew slumped against the wall and clutched his head between his hands in frustration. Why did he stay? Why could he never say 'no'?

The only light came from their empty bedroom down the hall and it washed the walls with shadows.

Hours passed before Matthew could hear scuffling on the doorstep and the telltale jangling of keys. When Gilbert finally managed to open the door and stepped into the quiet house, it was to find his boyfriend standing with his arms crossed and a seldom seen sneer plastered across his face.

Gilbert opened his mouth to mumble an apology but was interrupted when his lover tackled him to the floor. Matthew sprawled across his stomach and slugged him squarely in the jaw.

"Where were you," he growled out. Matthew could smell the alcohol and the cigarette smoke and hissed angrily, "_Where?_"

Gilbert finally managed to shift underneath the other man and grabbed his wrists to stop any more punches. He stared defiantly up at Matthew; the cockiness that could be borderline sweet by the daylight was bitterly cruel tonight. Matthew could see the beginnings of a welt along his jaw line, but worse than that were his swollen, red lips.

"_Who?_" Matthew choked in realization and Gilbert turned his face away in shame.

"No one you know."

Matthew felt as if the world had abruptly stopped spinning and cursed his own stupidity.

Again.

This was not the first time such a thing had happened; this was not even the fifth time.

"What are you chasing?" Matthew murmured hopelessly; his heart shattering into a million jagged pieces. "What the fuck are you looking for?" Matthew delicately cradled Gilbert's face, mindful of the swelling along his chin, and searched his eyes frantically. "You are the only thing I have ever wanted and here you are; right in front of me."

Matthew leant over to kiss the other man passionately against his already swollen lips. Gilbert pressed into the kiss desperately and bucked his hips. Matthew ground his own hips back against his lover's and slipped his tongue along his bottom lip, begging for entry. Gilbert opened his mouth and Matthew could taste the scotch and the cigarettes, along with the tang of what he supposed was the lover du jour. He could smell their scent on Gilbert's clothes and it was too much to bear. Matthew snapped a few of the buttons off his shirt and pulled it roughly over Gilbert's head. He ran his nails over the love bites and bruises left by somebody else and felt his heart break all over again.

At some point, he realized that Gilbert was crying along with him; the salt of their tears mixing with the sweat and kisses.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I won't do it again," promised Gilbert between kisses and Matthew already knew that he would give him yet another chance. In the morning light, he would believe the whispered apologies and forgive him. Again, and again, and again. Forever and always.

It was too little, too late, but he could never say 'no'.

* * *

_As always, please review and tell me what you think. Anonymous reviews are also accepted._


	3. Dancing With Myself

**Inspired**

_This chapter was inspired by the song: Dancing with Myself by Billy Idol._

**Dancing With Myself**

Prussia watched in bitter amusement as the nations stumbled sloshed across the hall. The wine was flowing steadily into the night and typically conservative nations lay sprawled over cushions and tangled in curtains. The lights were dim and twinkling in the same corners where couples and threes were methodically removing clothing with fumbling fingers.

It was kind of lonely from the outside looking in.

Everybody had somebody while he only had a beer in hand and an odd tingling sensation in his stomach.

The music that rocked from the speakers was too loud to be background noise and too quiet to drown out the thoughts cascading through his mind. It was actually kind of infuriating.

So, instead, he watched his friends and enemies twirl together across the dance floor and poured pale brew down his throat.

Suddenly, the song changed and a man bolted from the hall and into the courtyard. The couples on the floor did not seem to realize that the music had shifted from classical to the 1980's but Prussia was more interested in the missing nation.

He slid unnoticed through the room, past the speakers that were blasting the beginning of 'Dancing with Myself', and out the door. The music followed him out into the clear, crisp air and travelled to the far reaches of the grounds.

Swaying on the edge of the fountain with his eyes closed was one of the younger nations; all blonde and sweet in drunken grace. As he shifted to the music with youthful abandon, he lifted his hands and a grin spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that bloomed in sudden and complete joy.

Oh. That was why Prussia did not recognize the nation. Usually, he wore a slight nervous frown and flitted on the fringes of any discussion with a white bear clutched tightly to his chest.

Canada.

Prussia felt a sincere smile grace his features as he watched the other man dance with manic energy. It had been a while since he had smiled; not grinned or cackled or smirked. Canada twirled on the edge with his hands still in the air and let his eyes slide open. Upon seeing Prussia, he squeaked and lost his balance; crashing into the fountain with a splash of water. Prussia felt a genuine laugh tear itself free as Canada floundered.

"Kid, are you okay?"

The splashing paused and after a moment, Canada peeked over the stones. He was flushed and nervous all over again.

"… Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just wasn't expecting… I mean, how long were you standing there?"

Prussia stepped over to the fountain and held out a hand. Canada weighed his offer in suspicion before placing his own hand delicately in Prussia's.

"Since you switched the track, actually."

"Oh," mumbled Canada as he was pulled from the water. "Oh. Oh dear."

Canada sat sopping wet and shivering on the lip of the fountain. He seemed a bit miserable and shamefaced as he peered up at Prussia with wide, intense lavender eyes.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?"

Prussia cocked his head to the side and scratched his chin.

"I doubt anyone will notice," he mused and Canada let out a sigh of relief. "Which is really too bad, seeing as you were brilliant. Count me in next time."

Canada started and eyed Prussia as if he were a madman, which, granted, he was.

"Next time?"

"I should hope so," stated Prussia as he removed his dinner jacket and rested it gently on Canada's shoulders.

Canada was still for a few minutes as he gazed at the stars in quiet contemplation. Prussia sank down to the cool ground and leaned against the stones in companionable silence; except for the notes and chords still wafting through the air and the hum of breath passing through their lips.

This was kind of nice, actually.

"You know," whispered Canada softly, "it wouldn't really be 'Dancing with Myself' if I were dancing with you."

Prussia snickered.

"Do you think that maybe we could pick another song?"

Canada tore his sights away from the sky and bent over to stare at him. Prussia stared back. He met his gaze steadily before another bright smile lit up his face.

"Yes. Yes, I think we could. I think I would like that."

* * *

_Another short one shot inspired by an incredibly entertaining song. Seriously; sometimes I just break into a dance routine for this when, you guessed it, I am by myself. Anyway, seeing as the last post for Inspired was so depressing, I thought that I might write something a little more cheerful._

_Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. Feel free to leave an anonymous review._


	4. Kick Ass

**Inspired**

_This chapter was inspired by the song: Kick Ass by Mika._

**Kick Ass**

Matthew sealed the front door quietly behind him and, checking to see that it was locked, stepped lightly down from the porch. It was dark except for the streetlight glowing further down road, and he used this as a beacon to navigate his way.

It was the first clear night in a week of spring showers and it was nice to finally leave the house without an umbrella.

The only sounds were his footsteps echoing dully on the rain slicked pavement and the soft rustle of leaves from a barely there wind. There was a chill on the air, and Matthew tugged the hood of his sweater over his unruly blonde curls, but it did little to keep him warm. He slipped his hands into his pockets.

When he reached the end of the road, instead of turning left or right, he simply leant against the lamppost and waited beneath the halo of light.

He did not have to wait long; soon the gentle humming of an approaching figure tickled his ears.

Gilbert sidled up beside him and swung an arm over his shoulder, steering Matthew left and down another road without pause. He was pale in the moonlight; impossibly so, and his typically bright eyes were cast in shadow and several shades darker than usual. He was wearing trainers with worn soles, torn jeans, and a sweater thrown haphazardly over his cotton shirt. The sweater was unzipped and, for a second, Matthew worried.

"Your sweater."

Gilbert paused in his humming to glance at Matthew.

"My sweater?"

"It's undone."

Gilbert turned his gaze downwards to see that, why yes, his sweater was trailing open in the light wind. The wind was so gentle that it barely even stirred his fine silver hair, and could not lift the weight of Matthew's curls at all.

"Okay…?"

Matthew sighed and stepped in front of Gilbert; grabbing the front of the garment and fumbling in search for the zipper. When he found the two ends, he slipped one inside the other, and pulled the zipper up against Gilbert's chest; smoothing his palms over the fabric in satisfaction.

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow but Matthew avoided his stare in favour of bending down and curiously running a finger through the tear in Gilbert's jeans. He hissed as Matthew drew a bloodied finger away from the wound and narrowed his eyes in barely concealed frustration.

"What did you do now?"

Gilbert scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

"I had a little trouble hopping the fence."

"Oh, is that all?" Matthew growled as he searched for one of the sticking plasters forever hidden in his pockets. He had long since learnt to carry such things when sneaking out with Gilbert.

Finally finding one, he removed the backing and poised it over the scratch. He wiped some of the blood away with the sleeve of his own sweater as softly as he could, and certainly softer than Gilbert deserved for making him worry, and pressed the adhesive strip against his knee.

When he looked up from his handiwork, he could see Gilbert watching him with an odd mixture of intensity and distant thought. There was a rare, tender smile playing across his lips.

Matthew huffed and set off down the road; expecting Gilbert to follow, and he indeed fell into step beside him.

There was a stillness to the night, beautiful and comforting in its grasp, that would be difficult to explain to someone who had never wandered the streets after dark. The wet pavement reflected what little light there was in hazy amber whilst the puddles flickered in the shadows of crooked, gnarled trees. Everything was quiet, in this place just for them, except for the scuffing of their shoes on concrete and the whistle of their breath. If they did pass someone on their way, they could share a nod and a wink and a casual wave without saying a word. There was a mutual understanding amongst those who travelled by moonlight.

It was in this place after midnight; this moment when the rest of the town lay sleeping, that all of the best ideas were theirs for the taking. And an idea could change the world.

The road changed from cracked concrete to gravel to dirt as the two followed a hidden path through the trees and down the bank of a river. In the distance, a train rattled nervously over an old bridge. The conductor blew the horn and the harsh note must have carried for miles, but this too was comforting in its familiarity. They orientated themselves towards the sound; carefully pressing each foot into the mud before adding their full weight to it, lest they slide into the swollen river.

The train was still creaking overhead when Matthew reached the bridge and sank gratefully onto a dry log. The log was aged; pale and worn without bark, and caked in the scrawled names of sweethearts and shattered dreams. Gilbert stalked over to the blackened and burnt barrel; cackling happily when he saw that someone had had the good grace to leave firewood. This was also dry, thanks to the rickety bridge acting as protection against the rain.

Gilbert knelt down to grab the lighter from where it rested inside his sock; against his ankle, and Matthew prayed that the plaster would stay in place.

Gilbert sparked a bonfire with a little coaxing, mingled with curses, and slumped next to Matthew to watch it grow. It started small; just a spluttering of flames, but like all good things in life, it spread. Like a whore spreading rumours; like a bird spreading it's wings; like a lover spread across the sheets.

The others would be coming soon.

"How is your knee?"

"Hmmm? Oh, it's fine," Gilbert nudged Matthew playfully. "You take good care of me."

This was a side of Gilbert seldom seen by daylight but when the sun went down, so did his guard. Matthew liked this side of him, and it was the main reason he bothered sneaking out on a school night.

"Somebody has to."

Matthew turned towards the shuffling of someone stumbling down the path. Arthur stepped into the dancing firelight and nodded his head in greeting. Soon, Francis and Antonio slipped into the light; smiling wickedly with their hands in each other's pockets.

Hushed voices rose in a chorus of laughter despite efforts to quell the sound.

Twins slinked down the path, and Antonio disentangled himself from Francis in order to drape over one of the twins. The imposing figure of Ivan skulked purposely towards the fire and sat on the ground to watch delightedly as the kindling burnt to coals and cinders.

Toris and Feliks staggered through the grass, with Feliks chattering much too loudly and Toris desperately trying to quiet him.

Another train passed overhead as Elizaveta pulled Roderich towards the others and smiled brilliantly. Roderich pushed the glasses perched on the tip of his nose back into place and scowled, but did not remove his hand from where it was tangled between her fingers.

Perfect.

Matthew leant against Gilbert, content in this moment and basking in the dreamlike qualities of this place after midnight. Gilbert was humming again, and it was almost lost amongst the laughter of their friends.

In the morning, they would return to that never ending ebb and flow of hormones, gossip, broken hearts and broken homes. But by the moonlight, no one was looking for where they belonged; it was here, and now.

They were young. They were free.

And the whole world was theirs for the taking.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

_Ummm… Yes, obviously I was feeling contemplative. I firmly believe that only those who have wandered the streets by the quiet of night can understand that surreal, dreamlike quality that drifts through the air. You are separate from everyone else and the world is a different place when painted in deep blues and blacks. Okay… Obviously, I am still feeling contemplative. This was inspired both by the song and by a late night stroll. By the way, a sticking plaster is also known as a 'bandaid'. _

_The characters that came to visit came on their own; I had no say in it, so there is an unusual smattering. This one shot deals with the idea of being a youth; of growing up and discovering who you are at the root of it all. Who you are in those quiet moments after midnight._

_Yes, a bit of an odd post, but please remember to leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. Feel free to leave an anonymous review._


	5. Somebody That I Used To Know

_It has been a while since I updated under Inspired but here we go. This piece is inspired by Somebody That I Used To Know by Gotye._

**Somebody That I Used To Know**

Canada curled up on the chesterfield and wrapped his arms around his knees. His eyes were wide and staring and dried out, even though he felt like sobbing, as the crashes came from the kitchen in stops and starts.

He cringed as a pan was slammed against the tiles.

He had known what he was getting into when he married Prussia but that did not make it easier. It was heartbreaking to stare into the eyes of your spouse and see a stranger looking back. It was a side effect of existing as a forgotten nation that he, too, forgot sometimes. He forgot who he was, who he used to be, and even who Canada was.

Prussia screamed in the kitchen and shattered a teacup on the countertop. He could see him through the doorframe across the corridor as he picked up pieces of their life together and smashed them against the tiles.

It hurt.

"You! You did this, you son of a bitch!" Prussia was pointing at him now from across the corridor.

"I did not," Canada mumbled.

"You did too! You're the only one here!"

His eyes were burning but he swallowed the emotions and hardened his heart. It was not his fault that Prussia forgot who he was. It was not.

Prussia stalked through the kitchen, the corridor, and into the den. He grasped Canada at the shoulders and shook him twice, hard, so that his head snapped forward. Canada sneered and brushed him off.

"I did not," he repeated.

"What have you done to me?"

Canada frowned up at him through the fringe of his curls and the stranger scowled. Prussia raised his fist, hesitated that fraction of a second that reminded Canada his spouse was still in there somewhere, before punching him.

His wedding ring smashed against his cheekbone.

Canada rocked with the motion and bit his tongue. He turned his head in stages, the rage inside bubbling to the surface, to face the laughing stranger and spit the blood in his face.

He stopped laughing.

Canada jumped on him.

The two of them rolled over and over each other, crashing into the furniture and tangling in the curtains, punching and biting and scratching. Canada wanted his husband back, Prussia wanted to know where he was, and both of them used the other as an excuse to hurt someone.

It never lasted, this amnesia, and that was what made it bearable. It might last an hour, a week, even a month, but he would remember… Sooner or later… Canada just needed to keep reminding himself that there _was_ a light at the end of the tunnel.

"This is your fault! You did this!"

"I did not!"

"You did!"

"No!"

Canada kicked him in the stomach and he bounced into the window, cracking the windowpane. Prussia coughed and growled before lunging at him again. He wrapped his hands around his throat and Canada knew there would be bruises in the morning.

"Who are you?" Prussia tightened his grasp as Canada plucked at his fingers. His eyes were wild, and confused, as he sat across his chest. Canada knew that these episodes were just as difficult for the other nation. "What do you want with me?"

_I want my husband back._

He could not breathe. He reached over and tugged on his hair, hard enough to tear the silver strands, and knocked Prussia into the bookcase. Prussia coughed again as a dozen novels toppled off the shelves and landed on them. Canada used the distraction to snatch his wrists and pin them over his head.

Prussia bucked against him and gnashed his teeth. Canada sat in his lap to keep him in place as he thrashed. The one advantage he had was that this stranger knew none of his weaknesses whilst he knew all of his.

He twisted his left wrist and tugged it upwards. Russia had snapped his wrist in 1988 and the bones were gnarled and arthritic. Prussia hissed but stopped struggling and watched Canada with a new wariness.

"Stop it," Canada panted, his voice cracking. He searched his eyes but no one he knew was looking back. Prussia frowned.

"Let me go."

"No, you'll just hit me again," he snorted. "You always do."

"I will not, I promise."

Canada laughed outright this time and settled further into his lap to wait out the amnesia, or at least this session of violence.

"You never keep your promises."

Prussia shrugged his shoulders, or tried to, but it was difficult with his hands above his head. He leaned against the bookcase and Canada needed to lean forward with him.

"True."

Canada continued to search his eyes for some flickering of his spouse but the stranger lacked the depth of his spouse. He lacked the nuances of character and eccentric habits and, most of all, the kindness that he had acquired in the later centuries of his life.

Canada sighed in resignation.

It might be an hour, or a week, or even a month, but he _would_ remember. Canada just needed to wait for this stranger to leave and his husband to come home to him.

He tightened his fingers on his wrists while Prussia raised a challenging eyebrow and bucked his hips once, twice, against him in a slow, sensual motion. His expression was half teasing and half calculating and Canada had seen it too often not to recognize that it would be an interesting evening of avoidance.

He almost preferred the punching.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I do not think that Canada would 'cheat' with the stranger but I do think that this Prussia would attempt to woo him in some fashion to gain the upper hand. It is more of a control issue. _

_This piece is inspired by the song, and also by a few stories I have read where Prussia forgets who he is for one reason or another. These stories are always interesting and often sad. Uhmmm… I guess I should post a happier piece sooner rather than later before someone murders me. I have a lot of these Inspired pieces kicking around but I do not post them as often as I should. _

_**Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review; I do not mind. Please just let me know what you think of this piece.**_


	6. The Thief

_Inspired by The Thief by Brooke Fraser. This one is a little different because the piece is written from the point of view of Prussia but the song is from the point of view of Canada. _

**The Thief**

"You let her go."

"Gilbert, she was on the other side of a ravine."

"… You could have made the shot."

Matthew ducked his head and focused on his fletching but Gilbert did not miss the self satisfied smile.

"… I could have."

Gilbert snorted. Matthew was the best archer in the kingdom, bar none, and the fact that he had decided to shoulder his bow meant that Gilbert had missed some important detail. Again.

"What did I miss?" He sighed.

Matthew pointed to his likeness on a _'WANTED'_ poster, tacked to a tree with a knife, and painted with a ridiculous moustache. A leather satchel rested on the dirt beneath the tree. It was teeming with weapons and lace and ribbons.

His sigh changed to laughter as it all clicked into place.

"Oh, it was _them_."

Elizabeta and her bandits must be back in the neighbourhood. He had thought they were on the other side of the river. It was his mistake and he was sure to pay the price. They were as beautiful as they were dangerous and the crew was female exclusive; "no men allowed".

Gilbert and Matthew had encountered them a couple of times in the past and each time lead to new bruises and taunts. The fact that both factions were still alive meant that they were 'almost friends' and that was as close as it came to friendship amongst thieves.

Matthew hummed in agreement. He put aside his arrows to start sorting through the packs. To rob a robber was considered fair turn out in the forest. It was a treacherous place and to each his own. Still, Elizabeta would be back and Natalia would be more than a little upset. Katyusha, Bella, and Lili were a bit more forgiving but the other two were firecrackers.

"I suppose we better take half and leave the rest then."

Matthew tossed him a bruised apple from one of the packs. The bandits would be back as soon as Elizabeta caught her breath and realized who had ambushed her but they still had a little bit of time to themselves.

Gilbert took a bite from the apple but did not swallow it. He tossed it to a crow and waited for a couple of minutes afterwards in case it was poisoned. When the crow continued to bounce around camp, he chanced a bite and motioned for Matthew to do the same.

Matthew speared his apple on a knife and began slicing pieces. Gilbert used his teeth.

"When did you realize it was them?"

Matthew shrugged but that little smile was back. He pulled his hood up over his blonde curls to hide the expression but Gilbert snorted. Matthew must have known before he even gave the signal to attack.

He had to admire him.

Matthew was wearing doeskin britches and boots to his knees. His belt was wound through his quiver and it rested against his hip. He was wearing a vest, but no chemise underneath, and leather guards against his wrists. His riding cloak, complete with hood, was white with scarlet trim. It was not much for camouflage but, then again, he did not often need to hide.

He could see for miles and would recognize danger long before it came to fighting. Strange, then, that he had so much trouble seeing what was right under his nose.

Gilbert reached for his sword and started sharpening the edges. He bit into the apple to keep it from falling out of his mouth as he wrapped himself around his work. His sword was simple with a single garnet set in the pommel but it had been a gift and he treasured it. It had saved his life more times than he cared to count… Almost as many times as Matthew had.

His outfit was similar to the one Matthew wore in vest and britches but he wore a chemise and gloves too. His cloak was black with the same trim and much more useful when tracking after sunset. He did not have the sight Matthew possessed and so relied much more on gut instinct and luck. Matthew was better at avoiding trouble altogether but Gilbert was better at getting himself out of it again.

"Fine, then. Keep your secrets." He spit out his apple and threw it back at Matthew before returning his hands to his sword. "See if I care."

He smiled when Matthew caught the apple and took a bite of his own.

Gilbert had been travelling with him for about eight seasons. Matthew would be seventy two seasons gone on his next date of naissance and he had been just sixty four seasons gone when he first met him.

He had saved his life in an ambush that was none of his business and Gilbert had not let go of him since.

It raised some eyebrows, he supposed, to see someone with so few seasons travelling with someone who had lost count but Gilbert shrugged it off. He spent most of his time in the forest and such methods of counting were useless there. Survival was the name of the game in the forest; there was alive and then there was dead. That was it. No one spent time counting seasons.

Matthew reached over for another satchel and raised his head enough to catch his eye. He paused with his hand still hovering in the air and blushed. Gilbert winked at him and the blushing worsened.

He ducked his head again and gathered the pack to his chest.

Gilbert and his 'charge', for lack of a better term, had never slept together but he made sure that his intentions were obvious. He would not force the blonde but Matthew was well aware that the option was there. He made sure to be as apparent as possible; he flirted, he teased, he let his touches linger a moment too long.

He was waiting for Matthew to make the first move but, after that, all bets were off. He was a thief and he meant to steal his heart.

Gilbert laughed and went back to his sword. It was well worn and scratched and required additional care to keep it in fighting shape. It was worth the effort.

"Done," Matthew whispered, his voice cracking, and Gilbert had to stifle another fit of laughter. It was hilarious as someone with experience to watch someone without it go through the motions. It was bizarre to think that he used to be so transparent himself.

"Oh?"

"Mmhmm."

"Almost finished." He looked up. "Come sit with me?"

Matthew separated the stolen goods and set them aside before standing up and walking around to settle next to him. Their shoulders were touching even as Matthew drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. Gilbert leaned forward to see inside his drawn hood and was pleased to see that his face matched the trim of his cloak.

He knew the option was there and, as long as he knew, Gilbert would not press him or rush the decision. He was content just to know that he had such an effect on the other man. He settled back with his sword and bumped his elbow with his own.

"Thank you."

He was not sure what he was thanking him for. Was it for sitting beside him? For shouldering his bow earlier and not shooting an 'almost friend'? For saving his life over and over again?

It did not matter much. He was thankful for his presence. He was thankful that he no longer travelled alone.

He pressed his sword back into his scabbard and rested his head against his companion. He could feel the heat of his blush through his hood and it was comforting.

In a couple of minutes he would gather their spoils and lead Matthew towards the next great adventure but, for now, he was content to waste a couple of minutes pressed against him. He was content to flirt and tease and wait.

He could wait for the other man to grow up. He could wait to steal his heart.

He could wait forever.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This piece is fantasy inspired and I may or may not write other one shots for it in the future. If I do, I will post them on my LiveJournal instead._

_I could have written this to be much more sentimental than it is but I decided to make it a little light hearted instead. This fantasy kingdom counts birthdays in seasons instead of years. Canada is sixteen when he first meets Prussia and eighteen years old now. Prussia has lost track but he is willing to wait until Matthew is old enough to deepen their relationship on his own._

_**Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review, I do not mind, just please let me know what you think of this piece.**_


	7. Broken

_Inspired by Broken by Lifehouse._

**Broken**

Broken.

He was broken.

Prussia handed him a glass of water and coaxed him to take a sip. He was barely breathing and the slight rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still in there somewhere. His hands did not shake as he wrapped his fingers around the tumbler but it might have made Prussia feel better if they did; nervousness, terror, even panic was better than this.

"Matthew, please. Drink." Prussia would not ask under normal circumstances; asking was too close to begging for his taste but he was out of options and he knew it. Still, he was relieved that no one else was there to see such weakness. He might no longer be a nation but it did not mean he was pathetic.

Canada raised the glass to his lips and pretended to swallow but Prussia saw a line of water slide from the corner of his mouth and follow the curve of his jaw. As broken as he was and, still, he wanted to please him. He was not here or there but he was still pretending for his sake.

Prussia let it go.

He wanted to protect him but he could not protect him from himself, not really, and Canada was his own worst enemy.

Prussia was the only one who saw him like this; the only one he would let see him like this. It would set him a disadvantage if another nation saw him like this but Prussia was not a threat. Not in that regard. He could not set fire to his towns or ravish the farmland, even if he wanted to; only a nation could declare war on another nation in a moment of weakness and he was no longer a nation.

Somehow, in all of this, he had become neutral ground.

Prussia pried the tumbler out of his clutching hands and set it on the bedside table. He drummed his fingers against the table and studied him.

It seemed that just sitting on the edge of his bed was more intimate than Prussia had ever been with another nation. There was the fact that he wanted to fuck him within an inch of his life, of course, but not like this, never like this. This _shade_ was not Canada… No, it was something more. It was intimate because he wanted to take care of him more than he wanted to hurt him and that was rare.

It was precious.

He was a kingdom built on the ideologies of war and conquest. It was in his bones and his thoughts and in the deepest, darkest parts of him.

No, it was intimate because he wanted to take care of him and it allowed him to see that he was capable of something more. He was capable of kindness.

Who would have thought it? Him, capable of kindness? No one, he was sure, besides Canada would have taken the chance and, in the end, it was their little secret.

The secret was their weaknesses laid open and bare between the two of them; their weaknesses that were somehow so opposite and still intertwined. It was his need to fall to pieces and his own desire to know that there was more to him than mere death and violence. It was his want for protection and his need to give it.

Prussia was holding on to Canada because he represented the last bit of what was good in him.

He was all that was left.

Prussia tucked one of his curls behind his ear and watched him stare into nothingness. He might have been broken but he was still so beautiful that it ached. Prussia grasped his hand and allowed his fingers to dance across his knuckles. If Canada noticed, he could not tell. His hand remained limp in his.

He frowned and shifted his gaze to the broken clock on the wall. Hmmm... How fitting…

The two of them spent more time together than most of the other nations did and that included the few who were inseparable. No one understood it, least of all Prussia, but here he was.

Canada had prepared a permanent 'guest room' for him but he almost never used it. He would rather sneak into bed with Canada. He never touched him; he just wanted to watch him dream and see the tension melt from his face. He wanted to curl up next to the heat of that beating heart just to know that it was still beating. It was comforting rather than sexual.

He would never take what was not offered, no matter what the other nations said, and Canada had not offered.

But he would, sooner or later, and Prussia would be waiting.

Most of the time Canada was bashful and polite and a delight to tease. He possessed more of a backbone than most gave him credit for. He was beautiful and more so because he had no idea how wonderful he could be. He used to be a prize to be won, once upon a time, but now he had been forgotten.

Prussia tightened his grasp on his hand.

These episodes were few and far between but impossible to escape altogether. Prussia glowered at the clock and the seconds that were not ticking past.

Canada was a nation forever changing and shifting. It was as if the population wanted to tear the country apart and piece it back together, again and again, and little could soothe them for long. One wound would appear and heal itself just to be replaced with another; the French were upset with the English, the English were disappointed in the Métis, the Métis were displeased with the Aboriginals. One after another. The Turkish disliked the Russians and the Irish disliked the Polish. The Chinese suspected the Japanese.

The Christians distrusted Muslims and the Muslims felt the same. Homosexuals were afraid of heterosexuals and heterosexuals were afraid of everyone else.

Those with blue eyes disliked those with brown eyes and it was never ending.

It went on and on and on.

Prussia found it frustrating, this circular pattern so familiar in the new world, but there was little he could do besides hold his hand. It seemed that everyone needed someone to hate and poor Canada had all of the flavours of the world in his own backyard.

So, sometimes, he hated himself.

Prussia tore his eyes from the clock and went back to stroking his curls. Canada blinked all of a sudden and seemed confused. Prussia continued to pet his hair.

"Gilbert?"

Prussia swallowed the emotions bubbling under the surface and tried to smile. He knew that he was stronger than this, so much stronger than this, but Canada brought him to his knees as no one before him had managed. He could hide the power Canada had over him from the others but he could not hide it from himself.

"How're you feeling?" Prussia pushed cheerfulness into his voice and if it sounded forced, Canada did not comment.

"Awful. Where am I?" He was too disjointed to even recognize his own bedroom but it would pass.

"Safe."

Canada nodded his head as if that one word was enough. That he trusted Prussia at all was a wonder that never failed to amaze him. Canada reached for his hand this time, instead of the other way around, and he squeezed back.

He was confused but he trusted Prussia. He was not quite himself but Prussia knew that this too would pass. He knew because the two of them had done this several times before. Canada knew for the same reasons.

Prussia wondered what had happened before he was allowed to sit on the edge of his bed and hold his hand. Who had stroked his cheek or brought him water or turned on the lights so that he was no longer sitting alone in the dark? He was the first one to see him like this, as far as he knew, and that terrified him. What had Canada done before he came along? He did not want to picture him sitting alone in the dark.

Canada tightened his grasp as if he could read his mind and tried to return his pathetic smile. It was just as pitiful and tight around the corners.

That was alright. It was a step in the right direction.

Prussia continued to hold his hand because he was broken and wanted to feel safe. Canada held his because Prussia wanted to feel alive and needed. He wanted to feel as if he were the one keeping Canada together and that he might fall apart if Prussia was not there to pick up the pieces. It was not true, he was sure, but the illusion was enough. He wanted to feel needed in a world that did not need him.

He _needed _to feel needed. He needed it.

And Canada needed him.

The two of them were healing, somehow, even if it was just one broken heart beating for another. It was all that he could ask for. If he could be there for Canada when he was weak, and if he would let him, then it was all he could ask for.

After all, he was broken too.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Second one shot this afternoon._

_This is almost the flipside of 'Somebody That I Used to Know' with one nation having to deal with the other's issues on their own for a little while. A lot of authors have tried to write Canada as depressed over his loneliness but I do not think that would be enough to break him. Often, their reasoning feels forced to me and I have only found a couple who wrote it in a believable fashion. I suppose this is my answer for that. In this, we see that Canada is torn apart from the inside out and not because someone is ignoring him. (Besides, if you know anything about politics, you know that the conservative government up here has been pissing off the world at large. I wish we were being ignored…) If you are Canadian or American you might recognize the issue discussed here in your own neighbourhood. It seems everyone needs someone to hate and this is made easier in a multicultural country. I cannot imagine how hard that would be on a national representative. _

_I do not pretend I am above all that. I know that I am frustrated by racist bastards and homophobic assholes and religious zealots. Skinheads and ultra conservatives and bullies. I recognize that and try to pull back on the reins because although I am pansexual, and pagan, and for socialism rather than against it, that does not mean I am right. "The more I learn, the less I know" and all that. It is important to realize that there is not one answer (besides forty two). _

_But damn if I do not understand some people. _

_(This rant was brought to you by a bad week.)_

_**Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review, I do not mind, just please let me know what you think of this piece.**_


	8. Come Back To Bed

_This piece is inspired by Morning's A Peach (Come Back to Bed) by Anya Marina._

**Come Back to Bed**

Prussia blinked as the sunshine poured through the window and splashed across their bedspread. He tried to cover his head with his pillow but it was too late.

He was awake.

Damn.

He sighed and lowered his pillow and glanced down at the blonde wrapped around his frame. He was nude and seemed to sparkle in the sunshine but perhaps that was the semen from their encounter a couple of hours earlier. His curls were tousled and knotted from where Prussia had tangled his fingers in the midst of their passion.

Canada.

Prussia felt a slow smile spread across his face as he remembered running his hands down that chest and kissing that collarbone. He could see half a dozen bruises marking his conquest and it pleased the more primal piece of him.

He wiggled a bit, looking for injuries of his own, and found a smattering of scratches across his stomach and thighs. He could not see his neck but he felt the sandpaper smear of love bites dusting his own collarbone and neck. These wounds pleased him just as much as the ones on his sweetheart.

He pet his blonde curls with an absentminded hand before stretching his arms above his head and attempting to untangle himself from the bedsheets and the other nation. Canada moaned and tightened his grasp on him.

"Matthew, we need to get up."

"Fuck that," he mumbled against his ribcage and the vibrations tickled.

"C'mon. I still need to get up."

"Fuck you too, then."

Prussia could not help but laugh. Canada was often sweet and temperate but not when he was exhausted and, well, their games _had_ been exhausting. He jostled him.

"Let me go and I'll make breakfast."

"No."

"Let me go and I'll fetch the newspaper."

"No."

"Let me go and I will stop bothering you."

"No! Just shut up and come back to bed." He wrenched him back under the covers with a growl and Prussia lost his balance. He landed with his head back in the cascade of pillows while Canada climbed up to use his shoulder as a pillow instead.

"C'mon…"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"What if I…?"

"Shut up. Come back to bed."

Prussia bit his lip. The other nation was adorable when he threw one of his rare tantrums and he could not help but laugh. He smoothed his fingers through his curls, loosening the knots, and admired his features. He was almost delicate besides the frown. It was cute.

"What about…?"

"No. Shut up."

"But I…"

"Shut up."

"But I might…"

"Shut. Up." Canada cracked open one of his eyes to squint at Prussia. "And come back to bed."

Prussia returned the glare for all of two seconds before shrugging his shoulders and settling back down with him. He might want to leave but Canada wanted him to stay even more and who was he to argue with that? He knew that he was awesome. Who could blame poor Canada for wanting him to stay?

"Fine. You win."

"Mmmm." He sighed and kissed him on the shoulder without shifting much and licked one of the bruises there. Prussia wound their hands together and Canada returned the gesture. "Thank you."

"But you owe me."

"Mmhmm. Sure."

"Big time."

"Whatever."

"And…"

"Gilbert?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Yes, so, a minor bout of mania tonight… This morning? Ugh, I have work in a couple of hours… Like, as in, two hours. Sigh…. But in the meantime, another one shot for Inspired because I might as well. Ugh. I just feel awful (it was a bad week, month, etcetera). Gah!_

_This is how I wake up too. I guess I should go to bed now...  
_

_Oh, and… You did not think he was about to 'sparkle' in the sunlight, did you? I would never live that down. Please. That was semen._

_**Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review, I do not mind, just please let me know what you think of this piece.**_


	9. Sorry

_This chapter was inspired by Sorry by Buckcherry. It is the companion piece to chapter two here (Too Little Too Late) from the other point of view._

**Sorry**

Gilbert brushed his fingers over the silent tears running down his cheeks. Matthew was asleep now but the tears kept slipping onto the pillow and he could not make them stop.

He was ashamed.

Matthew was beautiful. He deserved so much more than what Gilbert could give him but Gilbert could not let him go. Could not, would not; never, ever. He was not strong enough to go on without him. He was not kind enough to let him go.

His hands might wander but his heart belonged to Matthew.

He was in love with him.

He wanted to think it was never too late to make it up to him but if he kept pushing him… Matthew might leave. After all this time, after second chances and third chances and fourth chances, he might leave. He would not wait forever. He _would_ leave.

And Gilbert would never recover.

His chest was peppered with the bruises from his previous encounter and the love bites that Matthew tried to cover them with. As he looked down at them, he could see the difference. He knew which ones belonged to someone who did not matter and which ones belonged to Matthew. He recognized the size and shape of them. He even recognized the colour.

He was ashamed. He could still taste the other woman and the scotch and cigarettes that he had plied her with beneath the taste of Matthew. He could still smell her perfume and it sickened him. He was so ashamed.

The tears kept slipping onto the pillow and the pillowcase was soaking through with tears and sweat and naughtier juices.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I won't do it again." He kept whispering the apologies under his breath like it might make a difference but the tears kept coming. Gilbert wanted to keep his promise this time, he did, but he never seemed able to. Perhaps Matthew knew that. Perhaps that explained the never ending tears…

Perhaps he knew better than to believe him.

"I won't do it again, I won't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Matthew shifted closer and mumbled, bitter and biting, as he wrapped his arms around him like he might disappear. It sounded like a curse and Gilbert ran his hand over the welt on his jaw. He deserved it. He wished it hurt even more.

The worst part was, in the morning, Matthew would pretend it had never happened. He would push his unfaithfulness down, somewhere deep inside, where it could fester in peace. He would cover it up. He would forgive him.

Somehow, as perfect as he was, Matthew needed him as much as Gilbert needed Matthew.

In the morning, he would change the bedsheets and both of them would pretend it had never happened. The secrets and distrust and suspicions would linger but Matthew would forgive him at least once more.

And once more was enough.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Gilbert clutched him as close as possible and smudged his tears with gentle fingers. He focused on the sound of him breathing and on the love bites he recognized. He focused on the beautiful man in his arms.

Once more was more than enough. Perhaps, this time, he could keep his promise.

"I won't do it again."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Oh, hello again alternate universe. Why are you so sad all the time? Shhh… There, there. I mentioned that this is a companion piece to the short Too Little Too Late because the two songs seem, to me, to be two sides of the same coin._

_Gilbert… Stop contemplating life and watching Matthew dream… It's getting weird… He just does that, I swear. I sit down to write and he decides to be contemplative. I need to write something happier._

_I am still having a rough time. Everyone seems to have cancer. I am on new medication though (again) so this week is looking up. _

_As such, I would be honoured if everyone would send me a song title and artist for future Inspired chapters. I cannot promise that I will interpret it the same but writing these is simple and fun and I want to do another dozen in the coming weeks. Please help me out by sending a song and I suppose I will dedicate that chapter to you. Everyone is welcome to send it in via either review or private message and feel free to leave one as 'anonymous' too._


	10. Kiss You Inside Out

_This was inspired by 'Kiss You Inside Out' by Hedley. I cannot decide whether I like or hate the song but this piece wrote itself._

**Kiss You Inside Out**

"Don't… Don't look at me!" Canada buried his face in his hands with a blush. "Turn off the lights!"

"No."

Prussia ran his fingers down his chest with a feral smile. Canada was beautiful and bruised and _his_. And that was just how he wanted it.

"C'mon! This is embarrassing…"

Prussia knocked him backwards onto the bedspread with a snort. He wanted to be able to see him, just as he was, and he could not do that in the darkness. He wanted to see him naked and glorious and _his_. Modesty had no place in the bedroom.

"No."

"I just can't… Hnnn…" Prussia bit into his collarbone and Canada trailed off, bucking against him.

"Just can't…? What? What was that?" Prussia laughed and Canada reached up to tug on his hair.

"Fuck off."

Prussia wandered further down, leaving a trail of kisses, even as Canada clutched at his hair. It was not quite submissive when he pulled so hard, but then again, Prussia did not want someone who gave up so soon. He paused to kiss the inside of his thigh and coax another little moan from Canada.

He grinned against his skin at the sound.

It seemed that neither of them would ever be considered 'vocal' in the bedroom but that just made Prussia appreciate the modest groans even more. It made him notice. It made him search them out.

He glanced up and watched as Canada began to relax under his ministrations. He nuzzled into his stomach and Canada curled around him.

"I love you."

"Then turn off the lights…"

"No. I want to be able to see you."

"It's embarrassing…" He mumbled, still threading his fingers through his hair while Prussia kissed up from his stomach to his chest. He reached his face and brushed their noses together. It was sweet and innocent and at odds with their suggestive position.

"It is not. You're just shy!"

"No, you're just an asshole." Canada returned the innocent 'Eskimo Kiss' before pressing their lips together instead and deepening the gesture into something dirtier. "But I kind of like you like that."

"That's because I'm awesome."

Prussia wrapped himself around the other nation and stared at him, crimson to lilac, as if he was the last man on earth. He cradled his cheeks in his hands. He knew, looking at him, that he could spend a lifetime getting to know him. He knew that he could spend centuries wrapped around the blonde, just like this, and never lose interest.

"It's still embarrassing… Stop looking!"

Prussia covered those wonderful eyes using one hand as a makeshift blindfold and kissed him at the same time. He was a bit rough, pushing him down into the pillows, but Canada did not seem to mind.

"Then close your eyes."

Canada blushed further, from a pink stain to scarlet, and Prussia could feel the heat against his hand.

"… That doesn't make it better…"

"I don't care. Let me love you."

He kissed him again.

"… Alright…"

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Oh dear… This is, uh, suggestive. But short too. In my mind, both of them are quiet in the bedroom… Besides the arguing, of course. I also think that while Prussia has very little shame, Matthew can be embarrassed by the attention sometimes._

_These two are such idiots… That's why I love them, y'know. There are just so many moments of them being sweetly moronic in my mind. Like any good couple, they're both friends _and_ lovers. _

_The last chapter was in the bedroom (after instead of before) but a little sad so… Voila! I am still looking for song titles and artists for future 'Inspired' chapters so please send them in._


	11. Strawberry Swing

_This piece is inspired by Strawberry Swing by Coldplay. There is another song by the same name by Frank Ocean that is just as pretty. I believe it sampled the first one._

**Strawberry Swing**

Canada crunched over the pebbles and sand surrounding the wooden structure and walked to the swing set tucked in the shadow of the building. It was after midnight but a single lamppost illuminated the entire scene in a wash of warmth. He could see Prussia rocking back and forth on one of the swings, his hands tangled in the chains, and his heart ached at the sight of him.

He looked so lost. So alone.

Canada approached and stole the swing next to him without asking.

"You were not at home. What happened?" He asked; not looking straight at him but instead staring into the distance as a kindness. He could still see Prussia shrug his shoulders from the corner of his gaze.

"No one could see me…"

Ah. That made sense. Prussia had been struggling with the concept of fading from the popular consciousness. It meant that most mortals could no longer see him and that the other nations were having a more and more difficult time with it. He must have gone out while Canada was at parliament and felt invisible. It frightened him, although he would never admit it, to be forgotten.

Canada had been there, done that. He knew how much it hurt. Perhaps that was the reason Prussia had come over last week in the midst of a rainstorm instead of just picking up the telephone. He had not left since.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

"I'm still sorry."

Prussia tightened his hands on the chains.

"Does it ever get easier?"

Canada thought about it.

"Never," he answered. Prussia laughed.

"At least you're honest."

Canada reached over to tug on the sleeve of his sweater and the two of them must have looked more like children than adults. Prussia turned to him with sad eyes that never seemed to cry and his heart ached a little more. He wanted to wipe that look off of his face.

"But it's not all bad, y'know?"

"No?"

"No. Some of it is wonderful."

Canada pushed his swing over so that their swings clinked together. He kissed him, even though it was audacious, because he wanted Prussia to know that someone _could _see him and that someone _wanted_ him around. Always.

He had never told Prussia that he was in love with him but…

He could not imagine a world without him.

Prussia paused for a moment, not responding, before he almost leapt off his swing in an attempt to deepen the kiss. Canada gasped against his lips. It was difficult for him to imagine that Prussia might want to kiss him too but... It sure seemed like he did when he kissed him so hard that their teeth banged together.

Or perhaps he just needed someone to care.

Canada thought that either was fine. He would take what he could get.

Prussia broke the kiss to stare at him in awe and Canada wondered if the surprise was just as evident on his own face. He could not help but think that it was a much better expression than the doubtful, desperate one from before. This expression suited him much better.

"Wow…"

Canada blushed and stared at his shoes for a moment.

"Shut up."

"That was so…"

"I said 'shut up'." His blushing worsened. Prussia jostled him a bit as his look of wonder widened into a smile.

"… Amazing."

Prussia kicked his swing back and started pumping his legs as Canada spluttered. He started swinging backwards and forwards until momentum took over and began catapulting him up into the air. The lamppost cast shadows that flickered and danced as Canada watched the other nation.

Prussia reached the zenith and started laughing as weightlessness took over. It seemed that his heartache was gone but Canada knew better. It was still there, beneath the surface, but he had managed to distract him.

That was alright. He would just need to make sure that he was always there to distract him.

Canada kicked his own swing back, still thinking about the kiss, and worked to join Prussia up in the air.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I often end up writing from Prussia's point of view because it requires a little more exploration and thought. Canada makes perfect sense to me. I do not need to write what he is thinking because I _know_ what he is thinking. But, sometimes, it is important to write it down because he is such a beautiful person. Caring, considerate, and kind to the point of hurting himself instead of sharing a burden. I love him and I think we all need a Canada in our lives. _

_I am posting something else today and then spending a couple of days writing replies. My mother and grandmother have been sick so I have been falling behind. I need to send my love to everyone who sends me reviews, especially those who post multiple reviews and keep my spirits up._

_I am still looking for more song titles and artists for future chapters of this._


	12. Love is a Battlefield

_Oh, the 1980's… This piece is inspired by Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benatar. It is set during the Great War._

**Love is a Battlefield  
**  
Matthew glared up at the dirt and beams that made up the protective barrier of the trenches and the sandbags that crowned the top in perverse splendour. His boots were soaked in the slime and water that coated the bottom. The trenches were a mess of mortar damage and rifle fire and the rebuilding that came after. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with his comrades waiting for orders to 'go over the top'… He was waiting to die.

He knew the chances of survival. He knew that the numbers were not in his favour.

And damn if that was not depressing.

The soldier next to him was smoking a cigarette even though snipers could use the ember as a flashing beacon. Matthew supposed he was still below the line of sight or, perhaps, it just did not matter at this point.

"We're going to die, y'know."

The other soldier looked over at him and stubbed his cigarette against the trench with a chuckle.

"Aren't you a little ray of sunshine?"

Matthew laughed but it was bitter.

"Yes, that's me."

The soldier held out his hand and Matthew shook it. He was covered in filth but, beneath that, he was pale. His helmet was tilted on his head due to a loose buckle but he supposed that did not matter much either.

"Gilbert."

"Matthew."

"How old are you, Matthew?"

"… Nineteen."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow and tightened his grasp on his hand so that his knuckles ground together. It hurt. Matthew tried to avoid his gaze.

"How old are you, really?"

Matthew blushed and tugged back his hand.

"Sixteen," he whispered. He had forged his documents and joined up to follow his brother overseas but the two of them had been separated into different battalions. He wondered if he was still alive.

Gilbert looked at him for another moment before returning his attention to the clouds drifting above the sandbags.

"I was sixteen once." He sounded wistful.

A bugle sounded somewhere down the line and the soldiers shifted their weight from one foot to the other in anticipation. Matthew looked around him and saw ashen faces set in grim determination. There were men kissing tattered pictures of their sweethearts or letters from their hometowns and each one of them was promising to come home.

Matthew knew that most of them would be unable to keep that promise.

The numbers were just not in their favour.

"I don't want to die."

"Then don't."

"That's not how it works."

"It does if you have something worth living for. Or someone." Matthew laughed again. The soldier on his other side jostled him a bit, unnerved, but Gilbert grinned. "I take that as a 'no'."

"I have never even been kissed."

"Really?"

"Really."

Gilbert tore his eyes from the clouds and looked him over again with interest. Matthew continued to avert his gaze because it was embarrassing. His brother used to tease him all the time about his lack of experience.

The bugle sounded again and someone was shouting orders he could not hear.

"Do you want to?"

"What?"

The shouting continued and the soldiers started grasping at the beams in front of them. It must almost be time.

"Kiss."

"Of course I want…"

He was cut off when Gilbert reached forward and pressed their lips together. Their helmets bounced off each other but he kept their lips touching. His lips were rough from the weather and surroundings but…

It was sort of nice.

Gilbert pushed off and started climbing up the sides as one last shout rang down the trenches to signal their assault. He leaned back and saluted him with one hand and a wink.

"Now? Now you have something to live for!"

He went over the top.

Matthew watched him disappear, stunned, before scrambling up after him with the rest of his comrades. Of all the conceited, arrogant moves… But it had worked. Matthew was no longer worried about chances or numbers.

"Wait for me!"

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This is an almost literal interpretation of the song but there are several lyrics that fit in just fine. … I always laugh when I see this music video. I mean, really. I have never shimmied with such an intense expression on my face. Ever._

_There are many interesting wars but this piece is set during the Great War. This war is probably the one I study with the most interest. Yes, yes, I understand that the Second World War was terrible (and it is interesting, do not mistake me) but that is the point. I understand it. It was a war of morals and beliefs, 'right' and 'wrong', and condemnation. I know that there are certain things worth dying for and I can imagine signing up for WWII. But… The Great War was such a gigantic clusterfuck. It was a snowball that started rolling out of control and a lot of good people died for no particular reason. It also tore apart Europe and paved the path for WWII. The commonwealth perspective of this war is quite interesting because Canada, Newfoundland, Australia, New Zealand, and India were so misused. These battalions were sent on just plain awful missions._

"_Over the top" is an expression that came about during this war and meant going over the top of the sandbags to fight, and often die, in No Man's Land for the sake of a mile in the right direction. _

_I am still looking for more song titles and artists for future chapters of this._


	13. Little Bird

_Inspired by Little Bird – Annie Lennox_

**Little Bird**

"Why do you call him 'Birdie'?"

"Hmmm?" Prussia tore his attention from the aforementioned Canada to stare at Spain. He was lounging sidesaddle in his chair whereas Spain was sitting on his backwards with his legs balanced on either side. "I don't know. Why do you compare Lovino to a tomato?"

"Because he is cute, just like a tomato!"

Prussia snorted and returned his gaze to Canada. The blonde was standing across the conference room with his brother and England. He noticed Prussia staring and raised a hand in greeting.

"Tomatoes are not cute."

"They are too."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"And what are you two ladies fighting about, I wonder?" France sat down between them and crossed his legs.

"Birds," Spain said at the same time that Prussia spat "tomatoes". France quirked an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes, of course. How silly of me…"

Prussia grinned.

"You have no idea what we're talking about, do you?"

"Actually, I suspect that it has something to do with sweet Mathieu and not-so-sweet Lovino. Yes?"

"Shit, Francis. That's eerie," Prussia laughed while Spain scratched the back of his head in confusion.

"Please. Do not doubt my ability to recall pet names," France snorted with a wave of his hand.

"Ah."

"And so?"

"I just wanted to know why Gilbert calls Matthew 'Birdie'," Spain sighed, "and he avoided the question because he is a coward."

"Am not."

"Are too!"

"Ladies!" France interjected. "That's enough. Far be it from me to be the voice of reason. I mean, really! Me!"

Prussia growled something under his breath and Spain kicked him but, other than that, let the subject drop.

It was quiet for a couple of minutes whilst the nations watched Canada. Prussia was looking at him with a rare fondness whereas France and Spain were glancing between Canada and Prussia in interest.

America jostled his brother and laughed. England frowned but Canada chuckled and shook his head. His blonde curls cascaded and bounced with the motion. His eyes twinkled.

Prussia sighed.

"Because that's what he means to me." He picked up the conversation where it left off, without preamble. "Vogelchen. Birdie. He flies so high above me and he doesn't even realize it."

"I do not understand," Spain frowned.

"Uhm…" Prussia paused to think it over. "I guess I mean that he… Flight represents freedom, right? Well, Matthew set me free without even meaning to. He is untouchable. He's perfect. He's like a bird floating high above me."

It was quiet for another moment before France chimed in.

"That was rather poetic. For you."

"Suck my dick."

"Ah, and the magic is gone."

Spain squinted at Canada. He was not sure what Prussia meant, exactly, but he could understand the feeling. Southern Italy was his own salvation and he made sure to tell the other nation at every opportunity, much to his ire.

"I think I understand," Spain whispered.

Prussia stopped glaring at France to focus on Spain. He softened.

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good," he grunted, turning back to watch Canada, who was untangling himself from his brother's grasp and heading in their direction, "because I am not explaining it again. Matthew is the only one who deserves to hear that."

"And _that_ was rather romantic," France cackled. "For you, of course."

"Fuck you," Prussia pouted. His expression changed as Canada caught his gaze and quickened his pace.

Canada approached them with a smile and Prussia gathered him into his lap. He kissed the soft skin where his neck and shoulder met.

"Hello, Birdie."

Canada laughed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Hello yourself."

Spain bit his lip as Gilbert pulled the blonde even closer. France stood up in a rustle of fabric and clucked his tongue at the show. Prussia graced him with a middle finger for his trouble and France laughed as he retreated.

Spain scanned the conference room for his own salvation and his heart leapt as his eyes landed on Southern Italy. He pushed off from his chair and stalked towards the brunette. Southern Italy saw him coming and squeaked, dropping his cup of coffee.

He would leave the love birds alone…

After all, there was a tomato just ripe for the picking.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Cheesy! That said, I do so love the Bad Touch Trio._

_I'm still kicking but unable to respond to reviews at the moment unless you have a specific question to ask. I would still love to hear from you, though, if you deign to grace me with your presence._


	14. Under Your Spell

_Inspired by Under Your Spell - Amber Benson (Once More with Feeling, Buffy the Vampire Slayer)_

**Under Your Spell**

Canada panted into the pillowcase as Prussia ran his fingers down his spine and lower in teasing circles. His breath was hot on his back as he laid small kisses and whispered endearments over his skin. Canada tangled his feet in the bedsheets to keep himself from slipping.

It was harder than it looked, or at least it was with Prussia pouring over him like a favourite novel and smothering him with affection.

He could not understand what he had done to deserve this. He had spent his life in shadow and figured that was his place. He had accepted it as his due. He had never expected someone to see him, actually _see_ him, and he had never expected this.

It was magic. That was the only explanation.

Prussia leaned his bare chest against his shoulders, his hands busy somewhere else, and licked his ear.

"It's not a trick," he whispered, his own voice rasping with the effort of their coupling. Canada wondered if he had been speculating aloud. "It's not a trick."

Prussia thrust forward and rocked both of them against the headboard. Canada tried to hold on and swallowed a gasp as sensation overwhelmed him.

It was strange how the world seemed brighter even in the darkness of the bedroom. It seemed as if the world was full of possibilities and hope. If he closed his eyes, he could see it… He could see a world where he fit in.

Prussia made him feel desirable. Wanted. He completed him.

No one else had ever made him feel like this.

Prussia thrust forward again and Canada bit his lip to keep quiet. It was a game; Prussia would push and he would pull. Prussia would give and he would take. Prussia wanted him to sigh and moan so Canada tried to keep the sounds all to himself.

He cherished them, he supposed. After all, no one else was able to coax these sounds from him. Just him. Just Prussia.

"It's not a trick. I love you." He dragged his teeth over his earlobe and pinched the cartilage. "It's not a trick."

Push, pull. Give, take. In, out.

His breath was ragged now and the pillowcase was wet with sweat and tears and spit.

"I love you. It's not a trick. I love you." Prussia let his hands wander before finding purchase. "I love you. Please."

Canada gasped and clenched his fingers, his fingernails scrambling over the headboard in a desperate search for something to hold on to. The pace quickened in sporadic stops and starts.

"Please, please," Prussia bit his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. Canada bucked back against him and Prussia slammed forward. It was all he could do to hold on.

He was slipping.

"Please. Scream for me."

And he did.

It was one short sound, a cross between a grunt and a moan, but it was enough to send Prussia over. He knew that he had won this round with that one little sound and Canada would let him have it this time. Prussia had given him so much; it was the least he could do.

Canada chuckled into the pillowcase as Prussia helped him to follow before collapsing beside him with a satisfied sigh and a cackle of his own.

Prussia claimed it was not a trick, magic or otherwise, but Canada had to wonder as he stared at the pale man through his eyelashes. Prussia was beautiful in the moonlight, naked and covered in the evidence of their passion. He grinned at Canada, a slow and lazy curl of the lips, as he grasped his hand and kissed the knuckles before sliding his fingers into his mouth one at a time. Canada shuddered at the sensation.

Push, pull. Give, take. In, out.

"It's not a trick," he repeated as he kissed each fingertip, scratched from their desire to hold onto something solid in a sea of intangibles. "I love you."

He was beautiful and Canada knew that he was under his spell.

Magic or otherwise.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_(o_0) What? What's that? Smut? Yes, alright, sort of, but I tried to keep it from becoming graphic. It's more hinted. You know, if the hint was one hundred feet tall and painted neon, but still._

_I do write more explicit pieces from time to time but I rarely post them. I guess I'll see what the reaction is to this one. I think most of you come to me for fluff but who knows? Maybe you don't give a damn what I write. This was fun, in either case._

_I have a friend, older than me, who has been married for eighteen years. She has self esteem issues. Every morning her husband wakes her up with a kiss and "It's not a trick." For eighteen years. I think that's sort of sweet.  
_

_All of my love. Please leave a review. And yes, I am working on the pieces inspired by the songs recommended to me but I'm just blowing off steam at the moment._


	15. Saturday Smile

_Inspired by Saturday Smile – Gin Wigmore._

**Saturday Smile**

Canada sat with his chin in his hand and watched Prussia eat his breakfast. He ate with the single minded determination of a starving man, although he was not. As a 'nation', he could not starve.

The sun filtered in through the window and brightened the kitchen. The wind chimes in the garden jingled and the sound wafted through the open window on a breeze. The birds were singing in the trees and the world was peaceful for one blissful moment.

It was one of the reasons he loved Saturdays.

"Hey, Birdie, are you alright?" Prussia wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem out of it."

"Hmmm?" Canada blinked and pulled himself out of his reverie. He cocked his head.

Prussia laughed and leaned forward to ruffle his hair. His fingers were coated in the maple syrup from his pancakes and caught in the blonde curls.

"I _said_ that you seem out of it."

"Ah, no," Canada fought to remove his hand. He grimaced when the fingers disappeared but the syrup remained. "I was just enjoying the moment."

"So… Watching me eat, then?" He raised an eyebrow. "Basking in my glory, right? I knew it. I'm awesome."

He was laughing again, his smile contagious, and Canada could not help but join in. He never wanted the day to end; he never wanted to say goodbye.

But that was the thing about Saturdays…

They only lasted one day.

* * *

Prussia lay on the grass with his hands behind his head and Canada using his stomach as a pillow. They were watching the clouds drift overhead, white and fluffy, without a care in the world.

"A lion."

"Gilbird."

"A rose."

"Gilbird."

"An exact replica of a double helix."

"… Gilbird."

"Gilbert, you think every cloud looks like Gilbird," Canada sighed.

"That's because they all do!" He exclaimed, tightening the muscles in his stomach to jostle the other nation. "Don't you see it?"

"No."

Prussia pointed to one cloud and then another.

"Look, it's round and fluffy and cute. So is that one. Just like Gilbird!"

"Cute. Right," Canada chuckled and rolled his eyes, "I see it now."

"… You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"_Me_? Make fun of _you_? Never."

Prussia pouted.

"You're mean to me."

"Never," he repeated.

Canada sat up and supported himself with a hand on either side of the other nation's head. He smiled down at Prussia, soft and sweet, and his heart skipped a beat. He was beautiful. His blonde curls contrasted against the blue skies and the clouds acted as a halo.

His eyes were patient and as constant as ever.

His smile was beyond words and reserved for their Saturday outings. It was the one day of the week that the two of them were able to see each other without pretence or excuse; it was the one day that they were able to be themselves. That meant the smile was reserved for him, and only him.

Prussia shifted his attention to a cloud above them.

"Oh," he said slyly, "that one looks different."

Canada tilted his head up to see and Prussia took the chance to lean forward.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That one looks like mistletoe."

Prussia sealed a kiss over his lips with a smile of his own.

* * *

Canada stood naked in the candlelight with hands that wanted to cover himself and a partner that forbid it. Prussia watched him with narrowed eyes, as if he were a predator and Canada, the prey.

"This is embarrassing," Canada mumbled.

Prussia stalked across the bedroom and pinned his hands above his head. He swooped forward to nip his earlobe.

"Nonsense. You're beautiful."

"You're just saying that."

Prussia shifted his attention to his neck and kissed down to his collarbone.

"Here, let me show you."

Prussia was not his first lover but sometimes Canada wished he had been. He was sometimes brash and unthinking, true, but Canada could not imagine a more compassionate lover. He accepted his insecurities and doubts and worked to show Canada how _he_ saw him instead.

Prussia thought Canada was beautiful.

And maybe, just maybe, Canada would believe him one day.

* * *

Prussia tucked Canada beneath the blanket with a smile. The other nation was sprawled across the couch with nonchalant grace. His sweater was hitched up around his ribcage and one of his socks was missing.

He picked a novel at random and sat on the carpet in front of the couch to wait for Canada to wake up.

Canada mumbled and turned over. Prussia caught the words 'maple', 'pillow', and 'Saturday' and his smile widened.

He wondered what those three words had in common but he could wait to find out; it was not Sunday yet.

* * *

Canada wrapped his arms around Prussia and rested his ear against his chest, listening to his breath and his pounding heart. The bedroom smelled of sweat and semen and echoed with their moans. The bedsheets were soiled and the carpet was littered with discarded clothes and the various trinkets that had been knocked over.

"I love you," he whispered, unsure whether Prussia could hear him over the sound of their panting.

He heard him anyway.

"I love you too. Go to sleep."

Canada shook his head.

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"What if you're gone when I wake up?"

Prussia chuckled and kissed the top of his head, smoothing the dampened curls with one hand. Canada traced nervous patterns against his skin.

"It's not Sunday yet. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Prussia saw the end of the world coming. It was hard not to; the days grew shorter, the nights grew longer, and the nations grew weaker as their children died.

It was funny then, as the world fell to ruin, that some people still bothered to use a calendar.

Prussia and Canada were two such people.

"What do you want to do next Saturday?" Canada asked as if there would be a _'next Saturday'_ and Prussia played along. Canada coughed into a handkerchief and ignored the blood. He huddled next to Prussia with his knees drawn up to his chest. The rest of the nations, the ones that were still left, gave them a wide berth.

"We could go to the park or visit the zoo," Prussia supposed, nevermind that the parks had long since burned and the animals were all dead, "or we could... Uhm... You know."

"Have sex?"

Prussia laughed in spite of himself. England glared at them from where he was perched, frustrated and exhausted and unable to see the humour in the situation, but Prussia ignored him.

"Yes, that." Prussia kissed Canada and tasted blood. It would not be long now. "Or we could 'make love' instead."

"I would like that," Canada sighed and settled his head against his shoulder. Prussia ran his fingers through his hair. His fingernails were black with dirt but it did not matter when the once blonde curls were coated in filth and grime. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"I'll miss you."

Prussia jostled him.

"Hey, it's not Sunday yet. We don't need to say 'goodbye'."

His breath was shallow and harsh. He reached for his hand and Prussia clutched it like the lifeline it was.

"Goodbye, Gilbert."

Prussia growled and clenched his fingers so hard that he pinched and bit into his palm. Canada did not even flinch as his blood trickled onto the stones.

"It's not Sunday yet! You hear me? It's not Sunday yet!" He shouted in desperation but Canada did not answer.

It was too late.

It was finally Sunday.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uhm… I am going to go and write something more cheerful now. Yes._

_My love to everyone. The powers that be switched my medication a couple of weeks ago… It did not go well… I'm back on my previous medication though and feeling a little more stable. I send my love to those who are ever so patient, and especially to Mayurei13, who has been waiting for a reply for a couple of weeks. She is as patient as she is lovely. (I love you!)_


	16. Never Let Me Go

_This piece was inspired by 'Never Let Me Go' – Florence and the Machine._

**Never Let Me Go**

Matthew watched the sunlight pucker and swell over him, caught in the motion of the water. It sparkled. The blue, chipping tiles along the bottom of the swimming pool refracted and reflected the sunlight and painted the world cerulean.

He rocked with the water, gentle, and listened to the silence roaring in his ears. It was peaceful here, under the water, and it cost him little more than his voice and his breath.

He never spoke much to begin with. What was the point if no one was listening? He was not pessimistic, just practical. As for breathing… It was a small price to ask for solitude.

Matthew kicked his legs and slipped forward. His blonde curls were burnished and floated around his head as he swam. He kept meaning to cut his hair but there were places he would rather be than the barbershop.

Places such as the swimming pool.

The swimming pool was part of his high school but it was seldom, if ever, used. There was a newer recreational area built on the other side of the science building with a high dive and swinging rope; no one bothered with the older, smaller swimming pool.

Except for him and the janitor in charge of cleaning it, of course.

Matthew flipped a couple of times underwater and revelled in the feeling of weightlessness. It was as if the water lifted his burdens and washed his soul clean. For one blissful moment, he could be himself. For one blissful moment, he could leave behind his worries and insecurities.

But then…

He needed to breathe and it all came crashing back down on him.

Matthew broke the surface of the water with a gasp, his soaking hair blinding him, and reached for the low diving board he knew was there.

Someone grasped his hand and he gasped for a whole different reason.

"Who's there?" He asked, still blind, as he tried to tug his hand back. The other person held fast. "What are you doing here?"

"You were under there for a long time." The voice belonged to a man and he ignored Matthew's questions. "I thought for sure that you were going to drown."

Matthew brushed the curls from his face and found himself face to face with Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He knew who he was, of course he did. The two of them had been in the same classes since the seventh grade.

That did not mean they ever _talked_.

"What do you want?" Matthew tried to sound threatening but he was more curious than anything. Gilbert did not let go of his hand.

He was perched on the diving board, still wearing his trainers, blue jeans, and zippered sweater. He was obviously not planning on swimming.

Gilbert watched him with a strange expression.

"Is this where you go everyday?" Gilbert ignored his demands and asked his own questions.

"I, uhm, what?"

"Everyday, after class, you disappear as soon as the bells ring. Is this where you go?"

"I… Uh, yes?"

"Why not use the other swimming pool?"

Matthew frowned. What the hell was this about? His classmate had never shown an interest in him before. None of them ever had; he was a wallflower and he was alright with that.

"I don't like the other swimming pool?"

"Why?"

"I just don't. Why do you care?"

"I'm just curious."

Gilbert was still watching him with that strange, thoughtful expression. Matthew had no idea what was going on behind that look.

He did not like it.

He did not like the idea of someone peeking behind his mask without his permission. He did not like it at all.

"Let go of me," he said without inflection or room for argument.

Gilbert argued anyway.

"No."

"Let go of me. Go away."

"No. I want to talk to you."

"Well, _I_ don't want to talk to _you_."

Matthew tugged on his hand but Gilbert held on, tight and tighter, the more he pulled. So he did the only thing his could think of:

He pushed off the edge of the swimming pool without warning and dragged Gilbert into the water with a resounding 'splash'.

Gilbert spluttered as he broke the surface but he refused to let go of Matthew. His sweater was floating up around his armpits, exposing his stomach, and his white hair was sticking up at odd angles.

He stared at Matthew, surprised, and Matthew stared back, just as surprised that he had done something so impulsive. There was a moment of quiet, the water lapping at the edge of the swimming pool, before Gilbert started smiling and Matthew felt himself return the smile in spite of himself.

Soon, both of them were laughing and the sound bounced and echoed around them.

Matthew still had no idea why Gilbert was here, or what he wanted from him, but he was persistent:

He was still holding on.

He had not let go.

And that was reason enough to hear him out.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was one of the requests from when I issued a challenge a couple of chapters ago, which is still open if others would like to volunteer songs. Tabitha Black requested this song. There were actually a lot of requests for songs by Florence and the Machine, but I addressed this one first because Tabitha Black has left me a right smattering of reviews whilst I have been in a bad spot and I have never had the chance to thank her._

_Tabitha? Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for brightening my day on several separate occasions. This might not have been what you were thinking, but it is such a personal song (between the water and the singer) that Gilbert needed to be an outsider._

_No, I have no idea why Gilbert was following Matthew either. I think he just sometimes does that. He is sort of a creature of instinct and curiousity. He does not need reasons, or at least, they do not have to be complicated._

_And no, Matthew is not an 'oh, whoa is me' character here. He is just an introverted teenager and a bit territorial and suspicious. Mostly, he's thinking 'fuck off and leave me alone'. Which was basically my only thought throughout high school too...  
_


	17. Space Oddity

_Inspired by Space Oddity – David Bowie._

**Space Oddity**

Gilbert crawled across the ceiling, upside down, with careful precision. He was wearing special gloves that allowed him to cling to the slick metal with just his fingertips and his shoes were made of the same material.

"Target on the move," crackled the little voice in his head. Gilbert adjusted his earpiece.

"Distance?"

"Approaching. Three minutes. Clear."

"Oh, good," Gilbert sighed, "then I have time to ask you out on a date."

The man on the other side the communicator spluttered.

"Beilschmidt, I hardly think this is the time."

"Williams, this is the perfect time. Would you like to get a drink after work?"

"We're on a spaceship," Matthew enunciated each word as if Gilbert were slow. Or slower. "Illegally, I might add."

Gilbert tried to shrug but it was difficult and Matthew could not see it anyway. His systems registered heat signatures and tracking devices; Gilbert was a simple blue dot on his computer.

"I'm sure there is a cantina somewhere on this piece of shit. Check." Matthew mumbled something. "What was that?"

"I said, there is. Next to Engineering. I already checked."

Gilbert grinned.

"I knew you liked me."

"Shut up."

Gilbert could almost feel the blush through the communicator.

"I knew it," he said again.

"Shut. Up. Target approaching, left corridor. One hundred feet and closing."

"Oh," Gilbert whispered, "that kind of 'shut up'."

"Yes, be quiet or you'll blow it. I refuse to spend a month in the stockade just because you never know when to shut your mouth."

"Bah," he whispered.

"I mean it, shut up. Target at sixty feet and closing."

"Say it."

"Say what?!" Matthew hissed. "What do you want? Target at fifty feet and closing."

"Say you'll go on a date with me after all of this is over."

"Seriously? Forty feet and closing."

"Seriously."

"Thirty five feet."

"Ooh, he's getting close," Gilbert sang under his breath, "you better make up your mind."

"Beilschmidt!"

"Williams."

"Argh! Fine, yes! I'll go out with you! Just focus on the mission! Target at twenty feet, nineteen feet, eighteen feet…"

Gilbert grinned as Matthew continued to count down and repositioned himself into a strange upside down crouch, strained and waiting.

"I knew you would see it my way."

"… fifteen feet, fourteen feet, thirteen feet, I hate you, eleven feet…"

"I love you too," he whispered, barely a sound, as the target walked beneath him without looking up.

"Target acquired. Good luck…" Matthew whispered back just as softly.

Gilbert jumped, or rather, fell two stories.

There was a brief struggle when he missed his chance at a stunning blow but he managed to cover their mouth and incapacitate the officer with small electric shock, courtesy of his gloves.

"Man, I love these gloves," Gilbert cackled as he bent over the crumpled form of the overweight officer. He tore the pass off of their jacket and dragged them into a closet. He broke the lock and climbed back up the wall to the ceiling with the pass in between his teeth. "Phase one complete."

Matthew sighed in relief.

"Excellent. Corridors open, clear. Alarm system offline. Surveillance cameras to video, clear. Come on home."

"Remember," he tucked the pass into his pocket, "you owe me a date."

"Yes, yes, _after_ I hack into the mainframe using the passcode on that card. Otherwise we're sitting ducks."

"Fine, but there _will_ be drinking, and maybe dancing."

Matthew scoffed.

"I didn't agree to 'dancing'."

"Look, do you want this pass or not?"

"… I do…"

"Then we're going dancing! Ta dah! Easy."

Matthew sighed again, this time in exasperation, and the sound crackled across the lines of communication. It settled in his earpiece, comforting. He knew that the blonde would still follow his progress whether or not Gilbert had manipulated him into a date.

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

"Just come home safe."

Gilbert smiled, softer than before.

"Yes, sir. Over and out."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Suddenly, space! I'm not sure if they're pirates or secret agents but it was fun to write in either case. I sort of woke up with this scene and song in my head. Weird dreams make for fun reading, at least._

_I am back in action this week, so let's see if I can write a chapter for 'Inspired' each day. I mean, I was laid off. It's not like I'm particularly busy at the moment…_

_All of my love._


	18. Memories

_Inspired: Memories by Within Temptation_

**Memories**

"Alfred thinks I've been acting a bit strange," Canada poured two teacups of tea and set about stirring milk and sugar into his own. He took a sip. "He said that I never leave the house. I left the house last week! Remember? For groceries?"

Canada leaned against the counter.

"I guess he means well. He's been worried about me since the… incident… but I'm fine! See? I'm just fine! And Arthur has been just as bad, if not worse. He keeps calling me and inviting me out…."

He trailed off, running his fingertip around the rim of his teacup.

"Well, it's better than Francis. He can't even look at me."

Canada bit his lip and turned his attention to the window. The snowflakes sparkled where the streetlight cast patterns across the lawn. It was dark outside, smudged and bruised where the clouds covered the moon. It was beautiful but, well, haunting.

"Perhaps it's for the best though. He was… You were close. Even Antonio has been more subdued, according to Lovino. He called me on the weekend. If I did not know better, I would've thought he was worried too."

Canada tore his gaze from the window and took another sip of tea.

"But I know better, of course."

The kitchen was quiet for awhile as Canada finished his own tea and let the tea on the counter grow cold.

The refrigerator clicked on and hummed in the background, soft and familiar. The steeping tea washed the kitchen in the scent of soft spices and milk. It masked the stench of dead roses on the tabletop.

The roses had been the last gift Prussia gave him before he… Disappeared...

He did have the heart to throw them out.

"You know, I think it'll pass. Their concern, that is. Not the, uhm, other bit."

Canada set his emptied teacup in the sink with a _'clank'_ and a splash of water. He turned around.

"I think the other bit is kind of permanent."

The ghost in front of him snorted, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side.

"_Gee, you think?"_ Prussia scoffed, frowning. Canada smiled.

"It's just this feeling I get… Tingling. Chills. The sensation that someone is watching me. You know, those sorts of feelings."

"_Oh, ha ha, very funny."_

"Don't be like that; _you're_ the one who decided to haunt _me_."

"_Only because you can't live without me."_

Prussia floated closer, raising his hand to almost touch his cheek but never quite making contact. Canada wanted to lean into it but he knew that there would be nothing to lean in to.

"That's true…"

"_I still love you, you know."_

Canada laughed but the sound was almost harsh and desperate.

"You do remember that there was a whole 'until death do us part' clause in our vows, right?"

"_Bah, death is overrated. I'd rather stay here with you."_

Canada wanted to wrap his arms around his deceased husband and never let go but there was nothing to hold on to; there was no warmth, just a spirit. Just the memories of a lifetime together.

"… Thank you…"

"_My pleasure."_

Canada snorted.

"I'm so sure."

"_It is. The afterlife was boring without you, and I'm too awesome to die, so I came back. And I missed you."_

"I missed you too."

"_And I love you."  
_

"I love you too."

"_And you can stop making tea for me any time now…"_

Canada glanced at the teacup, cold and starting to film. He kept making two cups, even if Prussia could not drink it, because it felt normal. It felt right. He might not be able to hug his husband but damn if he could not at least _make_ him a _cup of tea_.

It was strange how the simplest of gestures seemed to be the ones he missed most.

"Never."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uhm… Bittersweet? It's just plain sad if you imagine that there is no ghost and it is a hallucination. I prefer to believe in the more literal interpretation but both views are interesting and I wrote it so that it could be read either way. I also mention Southern Italy here because, in my mind, he and Canada would actually get along quite well. They have some similar insecurities and Canada would not take his slurs to heart. I think that they would be cute friends.  
_

_I should, uhm, post something happier tomorrow, yes? Alright then._

_This song was requested by Amariel. Voila! Please continue to send requests. I'm not addressing them in order but more as the suggestions catch my interest. I keep a list and peruse them in my spare time. Such as, oh, this week? _


	19. Shut Up and Drive

_Inspired: Shut Up and Drive by Rihanna_

**Shut Up and Drive**

"Now, press down on the clutch and shift into first… No, wait, reverse. Reverse!"

"Ack!"

"Brake!"

Gilbert scrambled for the handle with one hand and grasped his seatbelt with the other one in case he had to throw himself out of the moving car. Matthew slammed on the brakes before crashing into the garage and both of them were thrust forward in their seats.

"Oh dear…"

And they had not even left the driveway yet.

"Alright, that's fine, let's just try it again; reverse and then shift into first. Slowly!"

"Okay, that's…" There was a horrible screech of gears grinding together before the car stalled out. "Oh. I'll just give it more gas… And try again."

"No, wait, stop! You'll flood the engine!"

The car made another ungodly sound, shuddering. Gilbert wrapped his left hand over Matthew's and slipped the car into 'neutral' before using the parking brake between them. He turned off the ignition with his right hand and cocked an eyebrow.

"Sorry!" Matthew blushed, looking frazzled. Gilbert was not sure what he was apologizing for; the car was unharmed and he was sure the issue was with his teaching methods rather than with Matthew. It was his first time behind the steering wheel and the car was a standard besides; he was bound to make mistakes.

"Are you sure you do not want Ludwig to teach you? He's much better at this than I am."

Matthew turned another shade darker and tightened his grasp on the steering wheel. He lowered his gaze.

"No, I want you to teach me."

"… Why? I'm an awful driver, ask anyone."

"I want _you_ to teach me," he said again, decisive and sure. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and turned the car back on.

"Whatever you say, Birdie."

Matthew smiled at him.

The two of them had been neighbours since the second grade, when Matthew and his family moved into the quiet suburban neighbourhood. It did not stay quiet for long once Gilbert realized he could drag the slight blonde along on his adventures. It turned out that Matthew rarely said 'no' and it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship based on trust and causing trouble.

"So, I press down on the clutch. Okay. And shift into first gear, right? Okay. And turn around." The car began to straighten out. "Now what do I do?"

"Look over your shoulder and turn left."

"Okay…"

"No, left. Left! Your other left!"

"Oh! Right! Sorry!" Matthew corrected his turn with a sheepish look. "My bad."

Gilbert grumbled and tried not to panic. Dangerous situations usually turned him on but it was different when his best friend was driving the car. He did not want to crash, or rather, he did not want Matthew to get hurt and it was making him a touch uptight.

"Slower, slower. Alright, straighten out." Gilbert sighed. "Congratulations, we're out of the driveway."

He had meant to come across as sarcastic but Matthew let out a little cheer that soothed his ragged nerves and made him smile.

"Did you see that? Did you see it?! I did it!"

"Yes, yes you did. You fucking owned it. You are one awesome motherfucker."

Matthew grinned, pleased and pink with the praise. He was polite and would never use those exact words to describe himself but Gilbert was not a gentleman and he never would be. Besides, it was true; Matthew _was_ an 'awesome motherfucker'.

"Now we just need to get down the street!"

Gilbert gulped.

"Uhm, are you _sure_ you don't want Ludwig to take you?"

"No. It has to be you."

"Why?"

"It just has to be, okay? I don't trust anyone else to take me."

"Ludwig is plenty trustful. That's, like, one of his defining characteristics."

Matthew looked at Gilbert.

"But he's not you."

Gilbert blinked. He was surprised by the sincerity and some other indefinable emotion colouring his words. Matthew seemed so sure of himself.

"Uh…"

"It has to be you."

Gilbert was not sure what he was saying, exactly, but it sounded important. Weighty. He just nodded.

"I'm, uh… Yeah, alright, I guess. That's cool."

"Thank you."

Matthew slouched a bit in his seat, relieved, and chuckled under his breath. Gilbert stared at him, still confused, but it was contagious and soon both of them were left giggling. Gilbert could only imagine how it looked from the outside and found himself laughing even harder when another car passed them, honking the horn.

Their laughter died off in bits and pieces until it was silent. As always, Gilbert could not abide by the quiet. He cranked the music and settled his left hand back over Matthew's on the gear shift.

"Alright, let's do this!" Gilbert helped Matthew slide the car into first gear again. Matthew grinned, a little wild, and nudged the car down the road with some gentle footwork.

Gilbert could teach him. He could do it. It was just the two of them off on another adventure.

And that was something they excelled at.

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Uhm, Gilbert? He likes you. He 'like' likes you. Duh._

_Teenagers are ridiculous, just saying. I took my sister for her road test today and when she passed she came out with "Motherfucking cars can suck my motherfucking cock! I passed!". Classy! Anyway, I've been driving around with her for days so that she could practice and this song has been in my head the whole time. _

_Three updates in three days. Man, I rock._

_All of my love._


	20. Bruises and Bitemarks

_Inspired: Bruises and Bitemarks by Good With Grenades. Oh em gee, it's the twentieth chapter. When did that happen?  
_

**Bruises and Bitemarks**

Canada leaned over Prussia with a territorial smile and ran the end of the whip over his ribcage. Prussia tugged on the ropes securing his hands and feet but the effort was for naught. Canada had tied them tighter than usual.

"You're late," Canada hissed, bending forward and nibbling on his earlobe. His warm breath sent shivers down his spine.

Prussia might have denied the accusation but it was difficult to speak around the white satin gag in his mouth. Besides, he _was_ late, by five whole minutes, and he did not have a excuse.

"You kept me waiting…" Canada let the whip crack against his nipple with a flick of the wrist. Prussia jumped at the sensation. It straddled that fine line between pleasure and pain and it made Prussia squirm. "I _hate_ waiting. You know that."

Prussia watched him pace around the mattress and wished he was able to lick his lips. Canada was gorgeous with dark red kohl and lipstick painting his face; he was dangerous. He was wearing heeled boots and shorts with a corset, also in shades of red and black.

He bit the end of the whip, looking thoughtful.

"Now, what should I do with you? You've been a very, _very_, naughty boy."

None of the other nations would ever believe that shy, gentle Canada enjoyed bedroom games as much as the next person or that he preferred to dominate. He seemed so submissive when he was out and about that it was surprising how domineering and passionate he could be behind closed doors.

Canada flicked his other nipple and hummed under his breath as Prussia writhed.

"What to do, what to do…?"

Indeed, none of the other nations would believe that Prussia enjoyed being dominated.

Canada pet his hair absentmindedly as he thought and Prussia leaned into the attention, revelling in the seldom seen possessiveness.

There was something wonderful and perilous in allowing himself to be dominated. It was electrifying. Prussia had spent his entire existence conquering and subjugating opponents; he had spent a lifetime subduing men and women alike. This was new and exciting and involved more trust than he had ever deigned to grant anyone.

It would have been impossible with anyone other than Canada. He trusted him with his life, and also with his pleasure. It was exhilarating.

"Oh, I know…"

Canada hooked one leg over Prussia and straddled him. He rocked backward and forward, sending sparks of desire through Prussia. He keened but the sound was lost against the gag.

Canada untied it so that he could be as loud as he wanted and bent low to bite his collarbone hard enough to draw blood. He lapped it up with his tongue.

Prussia bucked and whined.

"Oh, you like that, do you? I'm sure you do, you naughty boy."

He trailed kisses down his chest, leaving traces of blood and lipstick, and dusted his fingers over his sides. It almost tickled and the battling sensations fought for his attention.

Canada swirled his tongue around his bellybutton a couple of times and drove Prussia to distraction before rocking forward again on his hips and bringing their lips together.

It was a gentle kiss despite the costume and demeanour. It always was.

"You wicked thing," Canada sighed, sucking on his bottom lip.

"You're, ah, one to talk… Oh!"

"Shhh," Canada whispered as his hands trailed lower, "or I'll gag you again and you don't want that, do you?"

Prussia gasped.

"No."

"No?" Canada twisted his clever fingers to punctuate his words. "No what exactly?"

"No, please no. Please, please, please…" Prussia wanted to cover his mouth and stop the breathless pleas but it was impossible. Canada had him right where he wanted him and if Prussia were honest with himself, which he rarely was, he knew that he was right where he wanted to be too; tied up and writhing beneath the blonde nation that owned his body and soul.

"There's a good boy," Canada kissed his forehead and pinched somewhere lower. "And they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"Woof," Prussia panted.

"That's right." Canada nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his hands and hips still preoccupied elsewhere. "Good boy."

Prussia let the pleasure and pain wash over him in waves until the sensations overwhelmed him and he sagged against the ropes, sweating and sated. Canada rolled off of him in one graceful movement and untied the ropes, checking his wrists and ankles for bruising or worse.

Prussia waited for the world to stop spinning and cuddled up to Canada with his back against his chest.

Canada brushed his hair back from his forehead and held him tight.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice quiet and lacking in the attitude from earlier. Prussia laughed.

"I'm better than alright."

"I… I, uhm, didn't hurt you, did I?"

Prussia pressed against him.

"Not at all."

It was silent for a couple of minutes as both of them tried to remember how to breathe. Prussia stroked the arms that encircled him and admired the nail polish on his fingernails. It was also red.

Canada chuckled all of a sudden.

"I guess I'll have to try harder next time," he said thoughtfully and Prussia felt himself tense in anticipation. He kissed the hand that had held the whip.

"I dare you."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I… Uhm… What? *Blushes!* It's not my fault; it just sort of happened! Argh! This is sort of like 'Under Your Spell' a couple of chapters earlier in that it is almost smut but I tried to keep it from becoming graphic. Again, the act itself is hinted at._

_I do think that Canada would be more of a dominate and that Prussia would be a submissive during such games because it is the opposite of their personalities. It would be much more exciting in that way and require much more trust between partners. That's why I mention that Prussia has never played submissive to anyone else before; I do not think he would have trusted anyone else enough to tie him up._

_By the way, aftercare is a very important part of BDSM. Please take it seriously._

_Dum dee dum… Please continue to review, because it makes my day (seriously), and send requests for me to add to my master list. I wonder if anyone has ever noticed that my stories are all over the map... I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not but at least it's interesting... Let's see what I write tomorrow!_


	21. Amazing Grace

_Inspired: Amazing Grace by Ray Charles. This chapter is actually a short continuation of my piece 'Painted Blind'. It might help to be familiar with it._

**Amazing Grace**

Prussia ran his fingertips over his eyelashes in wonder for the hundredth time. Canada let his eyes open and close, let his eyelashes brush over his fingers, and leaned into his palm. He nuzzled the hand that had watched over him and brought him back to life.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Prussia whispered. Canada snuggled closer.

"I forgive you," he said again, for the hundredth time, and it was true. He did forgive him. How could he not? He was in love with him, absolutely and desperately, and he had been for a long time.

The two of them were lying side by side on the mattress, staring into eyes that had longed to see and be seen. Prussia had tugged the covers over their heads so that the world was theirs and theirs only.

Canada kissed the palm of his hand and Prussia gasped at the sensation. Both of them had been waiting so long for this, just to see and touch and know each other completely. No more secrets; no more lies. No more guessing games.

No more war; no more scars.

No more regrets.

It was just Canada and Prussia wrapped in each other's arms, as it was always meant to be. The war had torn the world apart only to push the two of them together and how could Canada regret that?

A decade of blindness had been a small price to pay.

Prussia traced his cheekbones.

"Your eyes are beautiful," he said, "I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful."

Canada smiled, knowing that he had certainly seen something more stunning than his own eyes. He was looking at him right now.

"_You're_ beautiful," Canada stressed, brushing his hair from his forehead. He had waited so long to see the man who had protected him during his darkest hours and he was beautiful. Frail and tragic and so very beautiful.

Prussia laughed and let his fingers trail over his lips.

"I'm broken," he whispered, barely a sound, but Canada heard him anyway and shook his head.

"And beautiful," he fluttered his eyelashes. "Broken and beautiful, just like me."

Prussia blinked twice before a ghost of a smile graced his features. It was the first smile that Canada had seen with his new eyes and it was crooked and perfect.

"Broken and beautiful, hmmm?" He mumbled thoughtfully, leaning in to kiss Canada. "I think I can live with that."

"So can I."

Their kisses began sloppily, like their love, before they could find a rhythm that suited them; slow and careful as if the other nation was an illusion that might disappear… As if the other nation could truly break, despite the fact that both of them were still here… Despite the fact that neither of them would ever let go again.

Canada could hear the quiet murmur of Germany on the telephone down the corridor, most likely ringing each national representative in the yellowpages. His sudden reappearance would raise questions, he had been missing for years, but those could wait.

It was all background noise in comparison to the man kissing him.

It could wait. It could all wait. The world could stop spinning outside their cocoon of blankets and Canada would not notice.

All of his attention was on Prussia. Prussia was focused on him.

Neither of them closed their eyes; neither of them could stand to take the chance. They kissed over and over and watched each other through lidded eyes, awkward and wonderful. Broken and beautiful.

Together and perfect.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Sap, sap, and more sap. Dum dee dum… This is very short but there is not much else to add. This is just a small addition to 'Painted Blind' because I have always wanted to write it. And I have always wanted to write it to Amazing Grace because it is, ahem, perfect. "I was blind but now I see…" _

_Lots of love to everyone! _


	22. A Wish For Something More

_Inspired: A Wish For Something More by Amy MacDonald_

**A Wish For Something More**

Gilbert sat on the bleachers with one knee drawn up to his chest and watched Matthew chat with the newest exchange student. She was beautiful, with a large ribbon in her hair and larger breasts, and Matthew lit up when she laughed.

Gilbert glowered and tried to ignore the tugging on his heartstrings.

It was hard.

She pointed to a page in her agenda and Matthew leaned forward to see, explaining some minor detail that seemed to fascinate her. That, or she was fascinated with the soft spoken blonde instead.

Gilbert watched his best friend with the eyes of someone who wanted so much more and could not have it.

* * *

"So… She seemed nice," Gilbert hummed as the two of them walked home together.

"Yekaterina?" Matthew blushed. "Uhm, yes, she's very nice. She just immigrated from the Ukraine."

"Uh huh," Gilbert nodded, not really paying attention. He did not actually care.

"I asked her to the homecoming dance."

Gilbert stopped dead and stared at his back as Matthew continued walking.

"… What?"

Matthew turned around.

"I asked her out. She said 'yes'."

Gilbert opened his mouth, thought better of declaring his undying affections, and closed it again. He forced himself to smile.

It hurt his cheeks.

"That's… Great…"

* * *

Gilbert sat on his porch with a pillow clutched in his arms a stared moodily into the distance. His pet budgie cheeped from the cage in the corner, sheltered from the wind but far enough outside that his mother would not box his ears.

This whole situation was absurd.

Why did he even like Matthew? He was absentminded and awkward and insecure. He never spoke his mind. He rarely stood up for himself. He was too quiet and too shy and much too timid.

His hair was a mess of blonde curls and his shoes were always untied. His sweaters were two sizes too big and the hems of his jeans were tattered and his rucksack was falling apart.

And he was beautiful.

He always kept his promises. He never expected anything in return. He was kind and gentle and sweet.

And Gilbert was in love with him.

He squeezed the pillow a little tighter and thought about the dance tomorrow.

"What should I do, Gilbird?" He asked the yellow budgie. It cheeped and climbed up the cage using its beak and talons. Gilbert offered it one of his fingers and it bit him. "Ow!"

Perhaps the budgie was right. Perhaps the time for overindulgent whining was over. Perhaps it was time to stand up and fight for his affections.

And make a fool of himself, of course, but that was par for the course.

"Alright, Gilbird. You're right." Gilbert straightened the set of his shoulders. "Of course you're right. Let's do this!"

* * *

Gilbert stood beside the great double doors to the gymnasium and waited for his best friend to trail in with his date. He held a wilting pink corsage in his sweating hands and waited for the most awkward moment in his life.

The other students wandered through the doors in twos and threes, laughing and smiling. Gilbert did not feel like smiling; he felt like throwing up.

Finally Matthew and Yekaterina came in. She was resplendent in a pale blue dress but he was gorgeous in a dark shirt and purple tie. Gilbert swallowed and the sound echoed in his head despite the pounding music.

He turned on his heel and flat out ran to the bathroom.

"Oh fuck. What was I thinking?"

He splashed some water on his face and grasped the edge of the sink with shaking hands.

"This is ridiculous. This is ludicrous." He stared at his reflection and bit his lip. "This is selfish, that's what this is."

He glanced between the corridor that led back into the gymnasium and the window set high in the wall, weighing his options. Dance, bathroom. Dance, bathroom. Charge, retreat…

After a moment of deliberation, he started climbing out the window.

* * *

Gilbert sat on his bed and picked at his fingernails. He knew that he had done the right thing by leaving. He knew it.

It was the right thing to do, so why did he feel so awful? He felt like his heart was being torn into little pieces.

Ugh…

'_Tap', 'tap', 'tap'_.

Gilbert walked over to the window and threw it open just in time to get a pebble in the face.

"Ow! Shit!"

"Oh, dear! Gilbert! I'm so sorry!"

"You hit me in the head. With a rock!"

"I'm sorry!"

Gilbert blinked and looked down at Matthew. He was standing on the lawn with his sleeves rolled up and a handful of pebbles. His tie was loose and draped around his shoulders.

"… What are you doing here?"

"You weren't at the dance."

"I was. I, uhm, climbed out the window…"

"What?"

"Nevermind. Where's Yekaterina?"

"I, erm, I dropped her off at home… Wait, why did you leave?"

"I didn't want to get in your way."

Matthew cocked his head to the side.

"In the way of what?"

"In the way of your date."

"Is this about Yekaterina? You've been avoiding me because of her?"

Gilbert jumped.

"What? No! I haven't been avoiding you!"

"You have too!"

"I have not!"

"Gilbert, you're my best friend! I think I would notice if you were avoiding me."

"Maybe I don't want to be your best friend!"

Matthew dropped the pebbles in his hand. He gawked at Gilbert.

"You… What?!" He sounded offended.

"I, uhm, well…" Gilbert trailed off, the bluster fading as Matthew put his hands on his hips. "I just… I don't want to be your friend."

"Since when?!"

"Since I…"

"Since when, Gilbert?!"

"Since I wanted to be your boyfriend instead, okay? Alright? Is that awkward enough for you? Huh?!"

Matthew opened and closed his mouth in surprise and Gilbert felt his face heat up. That was the most embarrassing thing he had ever said, bar none, and it was about to ruin his friendship.

"I…"

"Look, Matthew. I'm sorry. Forget it," Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He was not about to let his own selfishness ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. "I didn't mean it…"

"Yeah, okay."

"I… What?"

"Okay. I'll go out with you."

"Huh?"

Matthew smiled.

"I'll go out with you."

"I, erm… What about Yekaterina?"

"What about her? She agreed to go out with me to make you jealous."

"… What? You knew that I liked you?"

Matthew laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Uh, duh. Who did you think you were kidding? The long lingering glances? The touches? I mean really…"

"I… What?!"

"Look, do you want to kiss me or not?"

Gilbert scratched the back of head in confusion.

"I… Yes, I do."

"Then get down here and kiss me."

"… Okay."

Gilbert stepped away from the window, amazed at his luck. Matthew wanted something more too…

He turned around and saw the corsage lying on his bed.

"Hey Matthew!"

Matthew looked up from where he was waiting.

"What? Get down here and kiss me!"

"In a second. Catch!"

Gilbert tossed him the corsage. He caught it with deft fingers and raised an eyebrow.

"What is this…?"

"Your corsage."

"That's pretty romantic for someone who should be kissing me."

"Yes, yes, hold onto your pants!"

"Not a chance."

Gilbert grinned and leapt down the stairs two at a time.

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Oh dear, they are idiots. Seriously._

_This chapter was requested by Nena. The song caught my attention because of the lines: "I think you're beautiful, But your hair is a mess, And your shoes are untied, But that's what I love best". That is absolutely how I see Canada. Hands down. _

_All of my love to everyone who has been sending me such lovely reviews. _


	23. The Man With The Child In His Eyes

_Inspired: The Man With The Child In His Eyes by Kate Bush._

**The Man With The Child In His Eyes**

Matthew snuffed the candle on his bedside and snuggled into the bedsheets. The wind was bitter where it slipped through the shutters but he made no move to mess around with them. The blankets were warm and that was what mattered.

He blinked, staring at the ceiling and willing himself to dream.

He tried counting sheep, and when that did not work, he tried counting them backwards and in another language.

_He wanted to see him. No, he __needed__ to see him. The man with the child in his eyes… The man who existed only in his dreams…_

_Gilbert._

_The sheep continue to bound over the fence one after the other but Matthew did not feel very tired._

"_That's because you're already asleep, moron."_

_Matthew jumped at the sound of another voice besides his inner monologue and was surprised to find Gilbert sitting next to him on the dreamscape fence._

"_Gilbert!"_

"_The one and only."_

"_I could have sworn I was still awake…"_

"_Nope. It's just you and me and the sheep now." Gilbert quirked an eyebrow. "But you can stop counting them anytime now."_

_Matthew 'closed' his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, the sheep were gone. He watched a sun that existed only in his mind cast pink and silver shadows over unfamiliar blue prairie grass. Gilbert nodded his head in approval._

"_Pretty," he said simply._

"_What are you doing here?" Matthew asked, keeping his gaze on the horizon. _

"_You wanted to see me."_

_Matthew laughed. _

"_I always want to see you. That does not mean you always come."_

_Gilbert shrugged and graced him with a small mischievous smile. It brought out the twinkle in his eyes that spoke of a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar._

"_Hey. I'm a figment of __**your**__ imagination. What I do or don't do is your problem, not mine."_

_Matthew clucked his tongue disapprovingly but did not disagree. It was true. _

_Leave it to him to fall in love with a figment of his own imagination, to fall in love with a dream… It was just like him to do something so ridiculous and asinine._

_The wind whistled through the grass and carried the seeds to new beginnings. There were birds soaring across the purple skies that would seem misshapen and strange by the light of day but were just right whilst he was sleeping._

"_I missed you," Matthew said, keeping his eyes trained on the setting sun. Gilbert snorted and jostled him and Matthew could almost pretend that he was actually there._

"_Of course you did; I'm awesome." He puffed out his chest. "It would be weird if you didn't miss me."  
_

"_How modest," Matthew said dryly._

"_I know."_

"… _Do you ever miss me?"_

"… _Maybe." _

_The old wooden fence creaked beneath their weight and he could have sworn that the gnarled knots and splinters beneath his fingertips were real but it was all a lie. It was all a dream._

_Granted, it was an absolutely perfect dream. The tragedy was that it made the waking world seem that much more unbearable, like being ripped out of paradise and cast into hell._

"_Sometimes I wish that I could just stay here."_

"… _Sometimes I wish that you could just stay here too. With me."_

"_Why don't I, then?"_

_Gilbert sighed and the wind echoed the sound._

"_Everyone has to wake up, Matthew. Even you."_

_Matthew kicked out his bare feet with petulant grace and pouted._

"_What if I don't want to?"_

"_That's not how it works and you know it."_

"_Well," Matthew huffed, "it should be."_

"_Yes," Gilbert agreed, "it should be. But it isn't."_

_Matthew watched as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and his dreamscape shifted to painted blues and blacks. Brilliant white stars peppered the sky in intricate patterns. There was no moon._

_He finally turned his head to stare at the figment that seemed so real… The man with the child in his eyes…_

_Gilbert was tall, he supposed, but he always seemed to slouch. His skin was as pale as the stars in the sky and just as radiant; he seemed to glow in the darkness. It was hard to see them now but Matthew knew that those beautiful eyes were crimson._

_Gilbert met his gaze._

"_Kiss me," Matthew whispered, aware that he sounded desperate and not caring. "Please."_

"_Alright…" Gilbert leaned in to kiss him and…_

Matthew woke up.

He hissed and roughly wiped the tears of frustration from his cheeks. His bedroom seemed even colder now without Gilbert and he shivered beneath the blankets that had been so warm an hour ago.

It was awful, falling in love with a dream. It was horrible and wearisome but he kept seeking it out. How could he not? He spent his days thinking about the man with the child in his eyes and could not wait until bedtime. It was selfish and somehow narcissistic but he kept coming back for more.

Matthew sighed and settled back into the pillows, waiting for sleep to claim him once again.

It was a dreadful way to live but it was worth it. In some twisted way, it was worth the pain just to see Gilbert and he knew that he would give up so much more just to have those few stolen moments with him.

Matthew felt his consciousness slipping away and found himself wishing, yet again, that he could stay with Gilbert. He found himself wishing that he would never wake up…

Even though it was impossible; even though it was impractical…

He would give it all up for a figment of his imagination, for a vision, for a dream.

He would give it all up for the man with the child in his eyes.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This one is a little different. It should be obvious that I chose such a dreamlike and disjointed writing style on purpose. This ended up being sort of bitter and sad in the end. I'll have to try and balance it with something happier next time. I have to keep you on your toes._

_I fell in love with a dream once and I cannot even begin to express how deeply it touched me. It was heart wrenching to wake up. My heart still longs for that dream and I struggle with the fact that he will forever be beyond my reach. _

_Aha! A week worth of updates, everyday. Suck on that! (Don't, actually. You don't know where it's been.) I hope that the updates were of some help to those who went back to school this week. Good luck!_

_More love!_


	24. Boats and Birds

_Inspired: Boats and Birds by Gregory and the Hawk_

**Boats and Birds**

Canada leaned against Prussia and wrapped the threadbare blue blanket tighter around them. The two of them were sitting on the tailgate of a rusting red pickup truck parked in the middle of a sea of sunflowers and watching meteors streak across midnight skies.

Prussia set his chin on the top of his head and wound their fingers together. His hands were wrinkled with age, weathered and gnarled but warm. So warm.

Time was slipping through their grasp and both of them knew it. Prussia was getting older as his kingdom disappeared into the dust and dreams of scholars. Forgotten.

There was not a lot of time left, not for him and not for _them_, but this one moment was gentle and perfect and theirs.

The wind danced through the sunflowers as it swept past them.

Canada sighed.

He knew that he would have to let Prussia go, and soon, but he could not imagine a world without him.

"Stop thinking about it," Prussia said. His voice rasped with a millennium worth of use. It was catching up with him. It was _all _catching up with him.

"I'm not," Canada pouted. Prussia knew what he was thinking about even when he could not see his face. Granted, that was all he thought about as of late, but he would miss that closeness and understanding when the other nation disappeared.

"You are a terrible liar."

"I am not."

"Yes," Prussia laughed and kissed the top of head, "You are. But I love you anyway."

The meteors twinkled and plummeted around them. The earth smelt of rain and rotting leaves and the beginning of autumn. Canada snuggled against his chest.

The wind was cold and his thoughts were colder but Prussia was warm. So warm.

His laughter trailed off into hacking coughs that reminded them both that _their _time was almost up. Canada squeezed his hand and Prussia squeezed back but he continued coughing. He could not stop.

Canada looked out over the sea of wilting sunflowers and watched the meteors vanish behind the horizon.

It seemed that all good things must come to an end.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Because all good things must come to an end. That said, who would like something a bit more cheerful next time? Raise your hand!_

_This is rather short but I wanted to kick off another week of 'Inspired' pieces. Please send requests. And cookies… Send cookies. Strawberry requested Boats and Birds by Gregory and the Hawk._


	25. Never Gonna' Give You Up

_Inspired: Never Gonna' Give You Up by Rick Astley. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever been 'Rick Rolled'. So, everyone, really…_

**Never Gonna' Give You Up**

Canada rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling fan as it spun in sluggish circles. Prussia was sprawled next to him, tossing popcorn into the air and catching it with his tongue.

It was hot outside and neither of them wanted to do much besides lie on the carpet and ponder the meaning of life. Well, the meaning of life and of popcorn…

"It's hot…"

"I noticed," Prussia drawled as he caught another piece of popcorn. Canada raised his hand as if he could coax the fan to spin faster. He could not, of course, but that did not stop him from pretending.

It _was_ hot but the truth was that Canada found the weather even warmer than Prussia. He preferred the ice and snow of the tundra.

"But I'm hot!" Canada complained. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and he despised the impression of stickiness.

Prussia laughed.

"Yes indeed. You are smokin' hot."

"That's not what I meant."

"Ah, but it's true."

Canada looked up at him through soaked curls. He did not feel attractive, that was for sure.

"I doubt that."

"It's true," he said again. Prussia leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. "I love you, even when it's hot out and you're in a bad mood. I love you even when you're covered in sweat."

Canada sulked and crossed his arms.

"Prove it, then."

Prussia was quiet for a long time, so long that Canada assumed he had won the trivial argument. It made him feel a little better.

Then Prussia set aside his popcorn.

"'I just wanna' tell you how I'm feeling,'" he started.

"Mmhmm," Canada encouraged, waving him on with his hand, although he knew that he had won the argument.

"'Gotta' make you understand.'"

Canada paused. Prussia was speaking in monotone but something about the words caught his attention. He had heard them before. What was Prussia quoting?

"Uh…"

He broke into song, pointing at Canada and rocking his head back and forth.

"'Never gonna' give you up, never gonna' let you down, never gonna' run around and desert you…'"

And all of a sudden it made sense. Horrible, horrible sense.

"Oh no, no. No."

"'Never gonna' make you cry, never gonna' say goodbye, never gonna' tell a lie and hurt you!'"

Canada pushed him over and straddled his chest. He covered his mouth with both hands just to shut him up.

He could feel Prussia smiling against his palms.

"Did… Did you just _'Rick Roll'_ me?"

Prussia nodded and the smile widened. Canada let go but did not move from his chest. He just stared down at him in dumb wonderment.

"Yes. Yes I did."

Canada had been be redirected to the music video on the internet before but this was surreal, even for Prussia.

"I can't believe that you just _'Rick Rolled'_ me!"

"Better believe it."

Canada blinked.

"You're insane. I love you but you're insane."

"No," Prussia dragged him down for a kiss. It was warm and humid and not altogether pleasant but it was Prussia and that made it awesome. "You love me _because_ I'm insane."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Good morning! That's right, you've just been 'Rick Rolled'. I barely regret this at all. The worst part was that I had to listen to this song on repeat while I wrote it. At four in the morning. Huzzah for insomnia meets the eighties!_

_I'll write something substantial a little while later._


	26. Little Talks

_Inspired: Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men_

**Little Talks**

Canada sat on the staircase and listened to the house moan and creak. It was an old house, and that was one of the reasons he bought it, but sometimes the rasping and screeching frightened him.

Sometimes, when he was alone.

Sometimes, such as now.

Prussia used to tell him that the house was whispering lullabies, telling him to close his eyes and go to sleep. The house had not seemed so scary then.

But then Prussia had disappeared. And now he could not sleep.

Canada fiddled with the worn sleeves of his oversized sweater and listened to the dripping faucet and the clanging pipes and the rattling boiler. It was a symphony of midnight music.

He knew that Prussia was still alive, he could _feel_ it, but he had no idea where he was. The other nation had simply vanished, without a word. He had been there at bedtime and gone in the morning and Canada was worried sick.

And when he got a hold of him… Well, Prussia would pay for worrying him…

He could see the porchlight flickering from his perch. He left it on in case Prussia came stumbling home. The trees outside the window swayed and danced in the whistling wind, scraping against the side of the house and adding to the music.

Kumajirou snuffled in their bedroom and curled deeper into the blankets. Gilbird cheeped sleepily and readjusted on top of his head.

Canada leaned backwards and let the stairs dig into his back. The slight pain was grounding.

He missed him. He missed him so much.

He kept imagining that Prussia would show up on the doorstep with a bashful smile and apologies on his lips. He kept picturing their reunion.

But weeks became months and he was starting to lose hope. What if Prussia had abandoned him? Worse, what if he was hurt and trapped somewhere? The possibilities were endless and a burning fuel for that pessimistic little voice whispering in his ear.

He looked out the window and pretended that he could see Prussia staggering up the path. He pretended that he could see him raising his hand to knock before reaching for the doorbell instead.

But it was just pretend.

_Ding Dong!_

Canada slipped down the staircase in surprise, landing in a heap at the bottom. He stared at the door.

_Ding Dong! Ding Dong!_

He leapt up and ran down the corridor, wrenching the door open on a bashful smile, just like he had imagined. Prussia was covered in bandages and peppered with scratches. His jeans were torn and he was missing a shoe.

He raised a hand in greeting, opening his mouth to offer some excuse, and Canada punched him in the stomach. Hard.

"Unf!"

"You asshole!"

"I know, I mean…"

"You son of a bitch!"

"Look, Matthew, I can explain everything!"

"You… You… How could you?!" Canada waved his hands over his head. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you call?"

"I…"

Canada reached for his collar and tugged Prussia upright. He pressed a desperate kiss to his lips. Prussia kissed back, just as desperate, and he had to wonder where he had been and what he had done to merit the plethora of injuries.

"You stupid, wonderful man…" Canada touched their foreheads together and breathed in his scent. He was a bit pungent and unwashed, but under that he smelt of fire and spices, just like he always did.

He was home.

Home.

All of a sudden it was a home and not a house. The groaning floorboards and ticking appliances sounded comforting instead of frightening. The trees outside seemed pleasant instead of menacing.

"Whoops," Prussia sighed, his breathe ghosting across his skin.

"'Whoops' is right, you bastard."

Canada pulled Prussia into their home. He would wrap him up in a blanket and make him a cup of tea and demand to know where he had been.

But somehow, it did not matter so much anymore.

He was home, and that was what mattered.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This piece was requested by Kneoria as well as by a guest. I bet you thought it was going to be sad again. It's not, really. Although, Prussia is going to have some explaining to do… What else is new? _

_I wonder where he went?_

_I was surprised, from the last chapter, that there are some people that have never been 'Rick Rolled". Really? Then why have I been rolled multiple times? Bah! _


	27. No Good With Faces

_Inspired: No Good With Faces by Jack Johnson._

**No Good With Faces**

Gilbert ducked beneath the awning and watched the rain paint the cobblestones dark and darker. People hurried past him in buttoned coats and umbrellas.

His plain white undershirt was drenched. It puckered and bunched up with each twist of his hips. His jeans were soaked. His combat boots squelched with each step.

The clouds were bruised and leaden and pouring rain over the sprawling town.

It was depressing. And that suited him just fine.

Gilbert shivered. His hair plastered against his forehead in dripping tendrils. He pushed it back from his face and watched the world march past him.

He had wanted Matthew to give him a chance, to give _them_ a chance, but six o'clock had come and gone and here he was. Alone. He had hoped that Matthew could put aside his worries and insecurities long enough to go on a date with him.

One date, that was all he had asked for... One date to show him what the two of them could be together, what the two of them could do together.

One date… And he could not even have that.

He rotated his shoulders in an attempt to soothe the tense muscles, running his freezing hands over the tattoos on his forearms. The fountain in the centre of the marketplace was overflowing.

A man staggered past him with a newspaper over his head. A woman ran in the opposite direction, the hem of her pink sundress sopping wet and maroon.

Gilbert jammed his hands into his pockets and tried to decide what to do. Another shiver danced down his spine but he was reluctant to go home. He could hide under the green and white awning for a little while longer, sure, but not much longer. The shopkeeper was glaring at him.

He supposed that the rain was punishment for pursuing the introverted blonde student. He had known that it would be difficult. He had known that he would have to convince him but it still hurt. Rejection just hurt, whether Matthew had meant it like that or not.

Gilbert bit his lip and studied his reflection in one of the puddles.

Was he unattractive? Was he irritating? What was wrong with him?

He stomped in the puddle and distorted the image.

"Gilbert! Gilbert!"

He looked up to see Matthew running towards him in a red raincoat and yellow rubber boots. He splashed through the puddles and came to a sliding stop in front of Gilbert. He raised one hand as he bent over to catch his breath.

"What…?"

"Hold… Hold…" Matthew gasped. "Hold on a second."

Gilbert frowned. He was breathing hard.

"I thought that you weren't coming."

"I… I…" Matthew straightened up with his hands on his hips. His chest was heaving. "I'm sorry."

"You're…?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm late."

"Late."

"Yes, I…"

Matthew was cut off when Gilbert burst into laughter, clutching his sides.

"Late!"

"Uh…"

"You were late!"

"Uhm… Yes?"

Gilbert leaned against the building for support and ignored the glowering shopkeeper. He was breathing even harder than Matthew now. He had been sure, so sure, that Matthew had rejected him but he was late.

Just late.

"You were just late..." He trailed off, smoothing his hand over his face and chuckling. Matthew stared at him, baffled. Then his eyes widened in understanding.

"Oh! You thought that I forgot! Or that I stood you up!" He blushed with surprise and guilt.

"Well, yes."

"No! I mean, I would never… I mean… I really, really wanted to come!" Matthew stepped forward and waved his hands through the air, awkward and unsure. It made Gilbert smile.

"'Really, really'?"

"I… Yes." His ears were coloured red now too. It matched his raincoat.

Gilbert pulled him even closer and let his forehead rest against his left shoulder in relief. Matthew hummed in embarrassment, unsure where he should put his hands, before settling on wrapping them around the albino.

Gilbert sighed in contentment.

"I'm glad…" He whispered against his burning ears. Matthew held him tighter.

They stood like that for moment before Matthew jostled him lightly, clucking his tongue.

"… You're cold…"

"Mmm."

"We should get out of the rain."

"Mmm."

"… That's not really an answer."

"Mmm," Gilbert repeated with a smile. "Lead the way."

"Where? I think we missed the movie."

"Wherever. You're here. You showed up, that's what matters. I don't care where we go now."

"Ah… We could go to my house and watch cartoons instead. You're soaking wet. I don't want you to catch a cold."

"Okay," Gilbert gestured absentmindedly, suddenly exhausted. Matthew grabbed his hand. He grinned.

They held hands all the way to his house and he caught a cold anyway.

But so did Matthew.

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Oh look. More sap. More awkward sap. Gosh. Why do we always assume the worse when something fails to go according to plan? We always assume that it was something we did. You know what I am talking about._

_Matthew probably just missed his bus, lost in thought and distracted, and Gilbert probably showed up two hours earlier than he needed to. Idiots._


	28. All Four Seasons

_Inspired: All Four Seasons by Sting_

**All Four Seasons**

_Spring_

Prussia blinked. Morning... It was morning. He sat up and stretched with a low murmur, allowing the soft bedsheets to slither down around his waist.

The alarm beside him flashed '0600' in neon. He had slept in, then.

Prussia turned his attention to the blonde snuggled against his legs. Canada. His lips were parted and pink and sighed with each breath. Prussia chuckled when the other nation tried to burrow deeper into the blankets and kissed him on the forehead.

"Good morning," he whispered.

Canada snorted and peeked at Prussia through his tousled curls.

"'m not sure there's an'thing 'good' abou' it…" He mumbled as he patterned little designs on his legs with his fingers.

"What about me? I'm good!"

"Oh, yes, I suppose."

"Just 'good'…?" He waggled his eyebrows.

"Mmm." Canada sat up so that he could nip at his collarbone. "You're wonderful."

"Damn right."

Prussia let Canada slide back into the nest of pillows and blankets. And then he disappeared, settling under the bedsheets and between his legs.

And then Prussia stopped thinking altogether.

* * *

_Summer_

Canada wandered around the kitchen without a stitch on, gathering ingredients and humming a wordless tune. Prussia sat with his chin in his hand and watched him. He had managed to find some socks before Canada had dragged him downstairs for breakfast but that was all.

He danced to the counter with a carton of eggs and a spatula.

He started singing. His voice was rough from their earlier activities.

Prussia grinned.

"What'cha' makin'?"

"Hmmm…" Canada studied the collection of ingredients. "I haven't decided yet. What do you want for breakfast?"

His smile widened before he was able to school his expression. He leaned back and inspected Canada. Or rather, he inspected his backside.

"… You."

Canada put his hands on his hips, still holding the utensil.

"I can't believe you said that with a straight face."

Prussia shrugged.

"I want you."

Canada picked up the teapot and stalked over to him. He sat on his lap and offered it to him with a self satisfied smile.

"Coffee, tea…" He kissed behind his ear, nuzzling. "Or me?"

Prussia laughed and jostled him.

"Oh, you. Definitely you."

"… You asked for it." Canada set the teapot aside and straddled the other nation. He grasped his face between both hands and kissed him with more passion and grace than he should have before breakfast. Prussia whined against his lips.

He let Canada take the lead. Well, 'let' was a bit of an overstatement. He did not have much of a choice in the matter and that was just fine with him.

* * *

_Autumn_

Canada curled up next to him under the worn blanket. It was cream with stripes of colour and somehow important to his heritage. Prussia just knew that it was warm.

The fireplace crackled with cedar and birch and loose pine needles. It smelt nice.

Prussia sighed in contentment.

"This is nice," he said. Sure, sex was wonderful but he adored cuddling. Not that he would ever admit it.

"Mmmm…"

Canada shifted so that their bodies melted into each other and Prussia wrapped his arms around the other nation. Their pets were sprawled before the fireplace, snoozing.

And it _was_ nice.

Canada wound their fingers together and kissed each of his knuckles, gentle and sweet. The sun washed through the window and painted the scene in soft pinks and yellows.

Prussia kissed the top of his head, the blonde curls tickling his nose, and continued to trace circles on his hipbone with his thumb and forefinger.

It was relaxing and warm and perfect.

And it was theirs.

* * *

_Winter_

Canada meandered into the den with a little frown.

"Gilbert, have you done the dishes like I asked?"

"Uh…" Prussia paused with his beer an inch from his lips. Whoops.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"Uhm, no…"

"You did."

"No, I…" Canada tossed a dishtowel at him, hitting him in the face. "Ow! What was that for?"

"You promised to do the dishes!"

"Look, it's not the end of the world. I can do them now."

"You better believe you'll do them now."

"Yes, yes," Prussia put down his beer and turned off the television. He rolled his eyes. "I'm a bad, bad boy. I deserve to be punished."

"Don't you roll your eyes at me!" Canada growled.

Prussia bit his lip to keep from asking him if it was his time of the month or some other wisecrack that might have him sleeping on the couch. He pecked him on the cheek and fluttered his eyelashes.

"My mistake. I'm sorry."

Canada pouted.

"It's no fun being mad at you if you apologize…" He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his left foot. Prussia thought he was adorable.

He laughed.

"How can I make it up to you?"

Canada blinked before a slow smile spread over his face.

"Oh. I'm sure I can think of something…"

Canada touched their noses together in a soft 'Eskimo Kiss' before Prussia leaned forward and sealed the deal.

_And after that… Spring. Again. _

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

'_All four seasons in one day…' Spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Sweet, passionate, affectionate, and irritated. Rinse and repeat. Canada can be all four seasons in one day. I think we are all capable of bouncing between those dispositions. Some of us more than others… Myself, for instance. I can give you whiplash. _

_I like the image of Gilbert sitting back and watching Canada wander nude through the kitchen in nothing but his socks. Sort of bearsandswears style. (She is another wonderful artist. I tend to go to MapleVogel, bearsandswears, and stripesandteeth on tumblr for my PruCan fix. I should stop by and tell them how awesome they are.)_

_(The blanket mentioned is supposed to be a Hudson's Bay point wool blanket. I imagine that Canada would have one of the original blankets because, uh, duh.)_


	29. Last Friday Night

_Inspired Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.) by Katy Perry_

**Last Friday Night**

Matthew clutched his pounding forehead and sat up with a moan. What happened? Where was he?

The couch he was sitting on was swathed in colourful coats and jackets. His wrist was decorated with dozens of keys wound together into a perverted bracelet. His trousers were missing.

What the fuck?

Someone shifted underneath the coats around his ankles. He emerged from the cocoon with a sigh and sprawled over his legs.

"Some party, huh?"

Matthew blinked. The stranger was pale with a crimson stare. His hair was haphazard and sticking up in all directions. There were streamers and sparkles tangled throughout his tresses.

And it seemed that he was also missing his pants... Matthew swallowed in trepidation. Uh oh.

"Uhm…"

"I mean, really. It was fine until the clown showed up." He started untangling the streamers from his hair with a frown. "Then it just got weird."

"Do I, uh… Do I know you?" Matthew croaked. His voice was rough and deeper than usual.

The stranger pressed his palm over his heart with an exaggerated gasp of surprise.

"Now, Matthew. I thought that last night meant something to you."

"Oh, I, uhm… Oh dear. I…" Matthew raised his hands to cover his blushing cheeks and the keys around his wrist jangled. The stranger knew his name but he could not remember his. How terribly impolite of him! "Excuse me. I, uh, I don't remember… Uh. Your name."

The stranger waved it off with a little smile. He did not seem upset.

"Don't worry about it, kid." He wiggled further up Matthew, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting against his stomach. "You've already more than made up for it… My name is Gilbert."

"Oh dear!"

"Mmm."

Gilbert was covered in a smattering of hickeys and Matthew had to wonder how many of them were his fault.

He turned his face towards the ceiling and tried to calm his instinct to run screaming out of the house. There was a lace brassiere caught in the fan and it kept spinning around and around and around.

"Oh dear, oh dear… I am in _so_ much trouble when I get home. My brother is going to kill me!"

Gilbert stopped nuzzling his stomach and looked up at him. He raised a pointed eyebrow.

"Alfred?"

"How do you know…?"

Gilbert gestured behind Matthew with a chuckle. Matthew turned to see his brother kissing another blonde in the corner. It seemed like Matthew was the last thought on his mind.

"… Oh."

"Mmhmm."

Matthew massaged his temples. He tried to remember what series of events might have led to this ridiculous situation but it was for naught.

"So what the hell happened last night?"

"Well," Gilbert scratched his chin, "We danced on the tables and drank, like, a lot. We went streaking through the park on a dare. Then we went swimming. Naked. That was not a dare though…"

"No..." Matthew gawked at him.

"Uh huh. I kissed you, or maybe you kissed me first, I can't remember… Eh. It doesn't really matter."

Matthew squeaked in embarrassment and tried to escape from underneath Gilbert but he refused to let go.

"And then we came back here. Oh! And Lars came too."

He stopped struggling for a second.

"Lars?"

Someone else shifted under the jackets and raised his hand at the sound of his own name. He crawled up Gilbert with an indolent smile and settled on his shoulder. There was bruise blooming across his cheekbone.

"Hey. Some party, huh?"

"Oh. My. God." His heart was beating too fast against his ribcage but neither Gilbert nor Lars seemed concerned. He could still hear his brother and his date in the corner, kissing and worse.

It was some sort of strange dream. It had to be. It was just too bizarre…

And then a clown walked in and it became even stranger.

"'ave you seen m' keys?" He asked. His face paint was smudged in some places and missing altogether in others. His wig was crooked.

"That depends," Gilbert drawled, "have you seen my pants?"

The clown laughed.

"No, but I'll trade you my keys for a balloon animal."

Gilbert did not even need to think about it.

"Deal. I want a yellow bird." Gilbert snatched his wrist and held it up in the air. "Oh, and Matthew has your keys."

"Ah," the clown found a balloon in a pouch on his belt and blew it up. He twisted it into the shape of a bird and handed it to Gilbert before bending over to find his keys on his wrist. "Thank you."

The clown untied his keys and ruffled Matthew's curls before stomping out. He had lost one of his oversized shoes. Matthew just blinked.

"I don't… I don't understand."

"Don't worry about it," Gilbert said again and patted him on the leg. "Here. I'll even let you borrow my balloon animal. It'll make you feel better."

He handed the yellow balloon to Matthew.

"I…"

"I want a balloon animal too," Lars complained.

"Fuck you," Gilbert snorted.

Lars mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _'you already did'_ but Matthew decided to ignore the comment in favour of clutching the balloon like a lifeline.

It had to be a dream. He was curled up with two men in a strange house, his brother was stripping in the corner, and he was almost positive that an iguana had just wandered past the doorframe.

He tightened his grasp on the balloon animal.

"Some party, huh…?" Matthew whispered. There was nothing else to say, really. Gilbert and Lars stopped arguing long enough to beam at him.

"That's the spirit, kid. And just wait until next Friday night!"

"Uh… Next Friday…?"

"Mmhmm."

"… Oh dear."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Alright, this bewilderment makes perfect sense if you have ever woken up in a pile of jackets at some stranger's house. If you have not… Well, go out and live a little, eh? _

_Poor Matthew… I think he'll wander around in a daze for a couple of days after this. Oh, and yes, I think that Matthew would be the person at the party who makes sure that no one drinks and drives by stealing their car keys. It's a rather important job. Don't drink and drive and please party responsibly! _

_A huge 'thank you' to everyone who has been reviewing this parade of random one shots. Each review brightens my day and makes me smile like an idiot. Seriously. Your reviews are what encourage me to continue writing. And a special 'thank you' to the guest anonymoustache for their kind words. I cannot respond via PM but your review made me so very happy._


	30. Dancing With Tears In My Eyes

_Inspired: Dancing with Tears in my Eyes by Ultravox. What do you mean chapter thirty?!_

**Dancing With Tears In My Eyes**

Prussia climbed down the ladder, hand over hand, and came to a rest on the slick brickwork of the sewer. The stones and pipes were coated in slime and worse but it was still the safest place on the planet. The underground was the last refuge of the survivors.

A rat scurried past him.

His skin seemed to glow in the darkness. He was even paler now than he had been before the end of the world. He ran his fingers over the bricks to the left of the ladder, searching, and found the carved directions to the nearest settlement. It was written in an ever changing and complicated code but it kept out unwanted visitors.

He set off down the tunnel once he had memorized a path through the maze. His steps echoed in the eerie silence. It was just him and the rats now.

He had left the robots behind, but just barely. It had been a close call. Again.

Prussia turned left and scrambled up the sewer using a series of footholds. He clambered into a hole that was less than two feet wide and came out in a service tunnel. He continued walking.

His rucksack was weighted down with supplies from the surface and it bounced with each step. He often went on 'errands' for the settlement because he was simply faster and stronger than most of the humans. His chances were just better.

He jumped across the channel and avoided the sluggish river of sewage. There was a mild electrical current running through it, not enough to seriously harm a human but enough to fry a homing droid.

He turned left again.

It was strange that the end of the world had come and gone and he was still alive. So much for fading from the popular consciousness...

He turned right.

Hell, the fact that anyone had survived was odd.

He ducked under a pipe and crawled through another hole in the brickwork and emerged at the entrance of a large hollowed out chamber. It looked like a bazaar with its colourful fabrics and hanging lanterns and it smelt of spices. Open air plots were marked out for couples and families using blankets and wooden posts.

The survivors were emaciated but cheerful, talking and laughing. Men and women were working and struggling and teaching and living and thriving. Prussia beamed. He adored humans and their neverending spirit, their perseverance.

He was slammed forward as someone slapped him on the back, hard.

"Unf!"

"Hey man," America grinned. "Way to not die."

Prussia brushed himself off. America was still the strongest nation he knew, dwindling population or not.

"Your confidence in me is heartwarming," he drawled.

"Confidence my ass," he took the rucksack from Prussia with a nod of appreciation and handed it to another sentinel. "My brother would be upset if you died, though, so try and keep it together."

"Yes, yes…" Prussia scanned the cavern. "Speaking of which, have you seen that wonderful brother of yours?"

"Please, everyone knows that I'm the wonderful one," America snorted but his eyes were twinkling with mirth. "Last I saw, he was serving rice at the cooking pot with Feliciano and Lovino."

Prussia offered him a salute and started picking his way through the pillows and blankets that marked the plots. He passed a couple of other nations and raised his hand in greeting but kept walking towards the common area.

The cooking pot was best described as a cauldron but even bigger. It was set over a fire and required several men to lift it. It was in need of constant care and attention and was responsible for feeding most of the camp.

Canada was standing over the cooking pot with a ladle and a smile as he served rice to an old woman and her grandson. His blonde curls were longer than usual and loose, touching his shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt across his cheekbone. He was thin, but so was everyone else, and his clothes were covered in worn patches.

His eyes were still brilliant and clear.

He was beautiful.

Northern and Southern Italy flitted around the pot, tending to the fire and stirring the rice. The two of them were normally in charge of cooking; Canada usually ran 'errands' with him. His forte was stealth but this latest mission had required brawn, not brains, and so Prussia had left alone.

Canada looked up from the next person in line and whooped when he saw him. He handed the ladle to Northern Italy and ran towards him. Prussia opened his arms and caught him when he leapt those last three steps.

Canada peppered his face with small, chaste kisses before Prussia was able to coax him into a deeper one.

"You're back!"

"Mmhmm."

"And in one piece!"

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"Well…"

"Hey!"

Canada laughed and kissed him again. The end of the world had brought them even closer together. You really started to appreciate the people in your life when they could be taken away at any moment. You really started to treasure every moment with them.

"You'll have to tell me all about it."

"Later. Let's go back to our 'tent'."

He laughed again.

"What 'tent'?"

They wandered over to an indigo blanket spread over the ground on the far side of the cavern. It was not much but it was home. Prussia pushed Canada into the pillows and loomed over him. Canada fluttered his eyelashes in some pretence of modesty but Prussia did not buy it for a second.

Their 'neighbours' were gone but that would not have stopped them anyway. Privacy was a thing of the past.

"I missed you up there," Prussia said, leaning down to bite his neck. "There were a couple of close calls."

"Aren't there, ah, always?" Canada gasped underneath him.

"Yeah, but I still, mmm, missed you."

"I, ah, missed you too. To be honest, I felt sort of useless down here. There was not a lot for me to do. I'm better at running 'errands'."

"You? Useless? Never."

The two of them traded kisses as they caught up. Prussia had been gone for two days and that was a long time for any couple, especially under such dangerous circumstance. They had a lot of fussing and fretting to do.

He could hear a violin humming a favourite tune in the distance and the sound of children laughing and sprinting past them. He could hear the sounds of life and love and survival.

Canada sighed against his lips.

The world could end all over again and he knew that he would still be lying there with Canada, lost in his eyes and his sighs. He doubted that he would even notice; he had barely noticed the first time. It seemed that some things were more important than the world and Canada was one of them.

"I love you," Canada whispered, "so much."

"I love you too."

"Until the end of the world."

"No," he laughed and tweaked his nose, "much, much longer."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was fun to write! Like, a lot of fun. This song and concept was actually requested by my mother. She's just cool like that, I guess. She was on long before I was and she picked out my username in a second after I joined. Sigh… At least she doesn't actually _read_ what I post. (She does sometimes read the reviews though. She was impressed by how supportive this community is. Or maybe it is just you guys…?)_

_One more day of my self imposed seven day 'Inspired' challenge and then I'll work on something more substantial. I was looking at 'Tired of Waiting' yesterday (I know, right?) as well as 'One Step at a Time'. Dum dee dum… Let's see what happens then._

_P.S. 'Privacy' is a fairly new concept and did not exist for most of history. After the end of the world, I think it would go back to that. Think the Court of Miracles from Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame._

_P.S.S. It's important to love people while they are still there. Trust me._


	31. I Knew You Were Trouble

_Inspired: I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift. Oh em gee, are we about to hit three hundred reviews? I think we are. That's insane! Thank you all so much for your support and kindness. I have said it before but I will say it again: It means the world to me. Truly._

**I Knew You Were Trouble**

He had known that he was trouble the moment he walked in but Matthew did not care.

His white hair was slicked back and his ears were pierced along the cartilage. He was wearing a battered leather jacket and combat boots and a dozen braided chains. How could he have been anything _but_ trouble?

It did not matter, though. Gilbert had caught his attention and Matthew was smitten.

"You like him!"

Matthew looked up from his lunch and blinked. His brother was leaning back with a self satisfied smile on his face.

"… What?"

"The new kid. You like him."

Matthew rolled his eyes and flicked a piece of his sandwich at him. Alfred caught it and shoved it into his mouth with a chuckle.

"Alfred, I've never said more than two words to him."

"Doesn't matter," he shook his head. "You like him. You like Gilbert!"

"I do not!"

"You do! You like the bad boys! Mrrrow!"

Matthew almost launched himself over the table in an attempt to quiet his brother. His laughter was deafening and the surrounding students were beginning to stare.

Gilbert included.

"Shh!" He hissed and tried to bat his brother. Alfred avoided him with ease and continued to laugh. "Shut up!"

"You do! Oh man, wait until I tell Arthur!"

"If you say anything, I will… I will… Well, I'll do something really unpleasant, that's what!"

"And Francis! He'll love this!"

"Alfred!"

His brother beamed at him and motioned with his hand.

"Yes, yes. Fine. You're shy, I get it. But this is a momentous occasion!" Alfred pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "Your first crush! My little brother is growing up so fast…"

"First of all, shut up. Dumbass. Second of all, I don't like Gilbert!"

"Well, that's a shame."

Matthew jumped in his seat and turned his head in increments to see Gilbert standing beside their table with his lunch tray. How long had he been standing there?

"Oh my…"

"I like you just fine." Gilbert sat down next to him and his chains rattled against the lacquered bench. Matthew felt his face heat up.

"That's not what I meant! I, erm, ah..."

Gilbert quirked an eyebrow and opened his cola. He did not seem offended so much as mildly amused. It suited his 'bad boy' image and Matthew could not help but find it attractive, even though it was neither the time nor place.

"What _did_ you mean, then?"

"I, uhm…"

"Matthew has a crush on you!" Alfred blurted out. Matthew felt his blush spread to his ears as he stared at his brother in disbelief. He opened his mouth to deny it but the words died in his throat when he noticed that the whole cafeteria was watching them now.

Oh god. It was 'showing up at school in your underwear' times ten. He had never been this embarrassed before in his whole life.

"I… Hmm. I…"

Gilbert sipped his cola and studied him over the can. The only indication that he might have been surprised was the fact that his eyebrow had climbed a little further into his hairline.

Matthew thought that he would die of embarrassment. At least, he hoped so…

"That's cool," Gilbert said after a minute, shrugging his shoulders and turning back to his meal. The rest of the cafeteria turned around too, taking their cue from him.

"I… That's it?"

He shrugged again.

"You're cute. I could do worse."

"… What?"

Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair. The gesture was almost nervous and it was endearingly at odds with the rest of his demeanour.

"I'm asking you out, of course."

"… What?"

"I'm asking you out on a date. You know, two people going out and having a good time? A date?"

"You're asking me out... On a date…?" Matthew frowned in confusion and resisted the urge to pinch himself. "Uh, why?"

Alfred was watching their awkward conversation as if it were a particularly interesting tennis match and _not_ his fault. His attention would snap towards whoever was speaking before bouncing back again. He was grinning like an idiot.

"You like me. I don't hate you. We should go out." He said it as if it were obvious and not at all out of left field.

"Oookay…"

"Great. I'll pick you up after school, then." Gilbert stood up with his tray and started to leave before pausing. He looked at Alfred, who nodded, before bending down and kissing Matthew.

On the lips.

In front of the entire high school.

"Oh!"

"I'll meet you at your locker at three, alright?" He smirked. "See you later, Matthew."

And with that, Gilbert stomped out of the cafeteria. The double doors slammed behind him, echoing.

Matthew looked at his brother with wide eyes. What the hell?

Alfred bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"… What just happened?"

"I think," he sniggered, "I think that you just found yourself a boyfriend."

"Uh, I… Huh."

"So how was it?"

"How was what?"

"The kiss, duh!" He waggled his eyebrows. "Did he slip you some tongue?"

"Alfred!" Matthew blushed and tried to smack him. "No! No, he did not."

"Damn," Alfred sounded genuinely disappointed, "and here I thought that he was a bad boy…"

But he was. He was a 'bad boy' and there was no denying it. Matthew had known that he was trouble the moment he had walked into their science classroom two weeks ago. How could he _not_ be with a smile like that? With those clothes? That voice?

But it did not matter. He was smitten.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Ahaha… Yeah. This song has been in my head for days. Sometimes, I hate the radio. Oh well. I see Gilbert as being the quintessential 'bad boy', although I offered a subtle hint of his goofier tendencies. I see Matthew as being dreadfully awkward, like, all of the time. And I see Alfred as being that friend with the big mouth. You know the one I mean…._

_The twenty seventh will be the two year anniversary of my father's passing. I'm not sure what kind of mood I am going to be in. Hmmm… All I know is that I miss him terribly._

_I want to work on some other pieces this week and then maybe I'll do another week of 'Inspired' pieces. All of my love, m'dears. _


	32. I Want You So Bad I Can't Breathe

_Inspired: I Want You So Bad I Can't Breathe by OK Go_

**I Want You So Bad I Can't Breathe**

Gilbert felt sunrise cascade through the window and paint the bedsheets with warmth but he refused to open his eyes. He could hear the birds singing outside. The blankets wrapped around him were worn with age but comfortable.

It should have been pleasant. Instead, it was worrisome. Sunrise meant that it was morning and morning meant that it had been three weeks.

Three weeks was a long time. Gilbert was sure that the other man had finally left him.

Still, he was afraid to open his eyes and prove himself right.

So he kept them closed and tried to focus on his breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. In and out. In and out.

He was not looking forward to waking up alone. Not at all.

And then someone kissed him on the forehead.

"Good morning."

Gilbert cracked open an eye to see a blonde angel leaning over him. His curls were tousled and tangled, just like the first time he had met him. He was smiling and blushing as he looked down at him and tucked a curl behind his ear. His lavender stare was soft and compassionate.

Gilbert blinked in surprise.

"You're still here." It was more of a statement than a question. The angel laughed.

"Did you want me to leave?"

"No! Don't go!" Gilbert tried to sit up without warning and managed to smash their heads together. There was a moment of groaning before both of them dissolved into more laughter.

"Ow! Watch it, Romeo!"

"Ahahaha. I'm, hic, so sorry!"

The blonde trailed off with a mischievous little smile.

"Then you should show me just how 'sorry' you really are…"

Gilbert beamed and wound his fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss.

"Okay."

It had been three weeks since Gilbert had first brought home this stranger. Now, he knew that his name was Matthew. At the time, he had just known that he was beautiful.

He had seen him running through the metro station in a faded red raincoat, flushed and brilliant and hopelessly lost. Matthew had been looking for the uptown train. Gilbert knew how to find it.

And the rest was history. He had followed Matthew to the bar and asked him back to his apartment after.

Matthew had not left since.

So every morning for three weeks, Gilbert expected him to leave and, every morning, he was still there; glorious and naked and lying beside him. It was the best one-night-stand turned three-week-affair that he had ever had.

It was also the only one he had ever had. Usually, Gilbert wanted the other person to disappear before the sun came up but not him. Not Matthew. He was different. Now Gilbert opened his eyes afraid that the other man would be missing and that the blankets would be cold.

Matthew kissed him back, gentle and searching. His fingers twisted into the linens on either side of his head, grasping and desperate and at odds with the sweet kiss. Gilbert bucked his hips and gasped at the pressure.

He could never seem to catch his breath around Matthew and that was another first. Butterflies and goosebumps were new to him. He had had many lovers but, apparently, none that he had loved.

He was starting to think that he might be in love with Matthew.

The sun continued to rise outside of the window but neither of them tried to disentangle. The kisses were pleasant and soft and constant, one after the other. Again and again.

Gilbert tightened his grasp on the other man and prayed that there would be another morning, at least one more, just like this.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I figured that I would just post something a little happier after 'Whispers', which is in the same vein as chapter eighteen of 'Inspired' here. Poignant, and necessary for my state of mind, but perhaps not the happiest piece… So here we go! Short but sweet._

_I actually really like the band OK Go and this is one of my favourite songs by them. Strangely enough, it always leaves me feeling a bit breathless._


	33. Try

_Inspired: Try by P!nk._

**Try**

I reached into the drawer, looking for a flask and finding a pistol instead. It was cold against my fingers and I traced the edges with morbid fascination. It was sleek and new, with clean lines and smooth channels. I had bought it secondhand but you would never know by looking at the damned piece.

I let my fingers dust over the pistol and come to a rest on the bottle of alcohol: both were tools of the trade in the detective racket and so I kept them in the same drawer. The flask sloshed as I dragged it out into the open.

It was almost midnight and I wasn't expecting any clients. I could afford to drink.

Hell, I couldn't afford to _not _drink. It had been that kind of day…

I knocked it back with a grunt of satisfaction, slouching in the old wooden chair and swinging my legs up onto the desk. It was covered in paperwork and half of it was even important.

I still didn't care.

The alcohol burnt as it slipped down my throat and I tried to remember what it was… Some sort of bourbon, maybe? It was something dark and flavourful in any case. It dulled the pain in my wrist and that was enough.

I was a dead end detective with arthritis at the age of thirty five… Man, I was living the life.

I took another sip and watched the seconds tick past, promising myself an early night for once.

So, of course, someone knocked on my door.

"Uhm… Hello? Is someone there?"

I sighed and tossed the flask back into the drawer. It clinked against the piece.

"Yes, come in."

The door creaked as the young man opened it, peeking around the etched windowpane and biting his lip. He was fair and blonde, with soft eyes and softer mannerisms. He was twenty four, maybe twenty five years old, and out of his element.

I gestured to the armchair in front of me and waited for him to take a seat. It was also second hand and, this time, it _was _obvious. The fabric was an orange that might have been red once upon a time and covered in suspicious stains and rips.

I liked it anyway.

"Are you, uhm… Are you Detective Beilschmidt?"

He fidgeted with the wedding ring on his left hand.

"Sometimes," I said, cocking an eyebrow. My name was on the door. Who else would I be, really? "It depends. Who wants to know?"

"Oh, uhm, my name is Matthew."

"Do you have a last name, Matthew?"

He blushed. He was so far outside of his element… Which meant that I was in mine.

"Uh, no. No. Just Matthew."

I snorted but let it go.

"Alright, 'Just Matthew'. What can I do for you?"

Matthew continued to twist the ring on his finger and squirm in his seat. I waited. There was no point in pressuring a client like Matthew. He would either speak in his own time or chicken out altogether. I had seen it often enough to recognize the signs; pale, sweating, timid.

He had come here alone and he was still questioning his decision.

So I waited.

The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles, fluttering the paperwork on the desk. The headlights of a car streaked past the window, casting shadows that danced and set the scene as dark and disturbing.

"I…" He started before pausing with a frown. He tried again. "I think that my wife might be cheating on me."

I resisted the urge to snort again. A marital dispute… How pedestrian…

"And what, 'Just Matthew', gave you that idea."

He scooted a little further forward in the armchair. It looked too big for him, or perhaps he just seemed too small. His shoulders were hunched like he wanted to disappear.

"She's just been… She goes out in the evening and comes back after midnight, right? And she, uh, looks different after. She _smells_ different."

"And have you confronted her?"

"Not… Not quite. She's been very defensive." He worried his lip some more, mindless of the swelling and chapping. "I don't want to upset her."

"She obviously doesn't feel the same way." It was insensitive and I should have held my tongue, but it was true. I had seen this movie too many times not to recognize the signs. I had to speak up.

He flinched.

"I… Yes, I suppose so…" Matthew lowered his gaze even further and studied his shoes.

Damn.

"Look," I ran my hands through my hair and leaned against my desk, tapping the pile of file folders in front of me. "I'm sorry. It's just… I've seen this a thousand times before. She's _playing_ you."

"… I know."

Another car drove past the window and painted my office in strange patterns.

"Then forget her."

"That's your advice?"

"No, that's free. My advice will cost you."

"… How much?"

"Two beers."

"What?"

"It'll cost you two beers at the pub down the street."

Matthew finally looked up from his shoes and blinked. He seemed surprised.

That made two of them.

"… My wife is cheating on me and you want to go out for drinks?"

I thought about and decided that, yes, that was exactly what I wanted to do.

"Mmhmm."

"I'm not sure that's entirely appropriate."

"Tell me, 'Just Matthew', do you love your wife?"

"… What?"

"Do you love your wife?"

He twisted the ring on his finger.

"I'm… I'm not sure anymore."

"Alright. Then you have nothing to lose. Come to the pub with me and I'll make it all better."

Matthew stared me down, as lost and unsure as when he had first walked into my office… Maybe even more so. I met his gaze. His lavender eyes were dim with unhappiness and I wondered how much of it was due to his wayward wife. I swore that I would look into the situation, whether or not I ended up taking the case.

I wasn't sure why I cared. I just did.

"Do you promise?" His voice came out as a whisper and I wondered again what this woman had put him through... It must have been hell.

"I can't promise," I said, because I could not and I refused to lie, "but I'll try."

I stood up and held out my hand to him. He smiled. The expression was tight around the corners but it was a step in the right direction.

"… Okay."

He grabbed my hand.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uh… I guess Gilbert just really wanted that early night, eh? That, or he was hitting on his client, which is bad for business (but oh so good for the soul). He cares, in his own backwards way._

_I'm not sure why this song made me think of a noir detective scene but it did, damn it! Now I want to work on Black and White or Hack and Slash… Both are on my livejournal account at the moment because I have a horrible habit of starting stories and then wandering off… (Me? Nooo…)_

_Is this the first piece I have posted in first person point-of-view? It might be. And the contractions are purposeful. It is a monologue, of sorts. _


	34. Thrift Shop

_Inspired Thrift Shop by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis._

**Thrift Shop**

"Oh my god, oh my god! Matthew! Matthew, look! Look! Matthew! Matthew! Matthew!"

Canada sighed and lowered the novel in his hands. It was a collection of illustrated Inuit stories written in Inuktitut.

"What?"

"Look!"

Canada blinked. Prussia was standing in front of him, bouncing up and down and holding a handful of five dollar bills. He was grinning like an idiot.

"Uh… Yes. Money. It's very nice. Congratulations."

"No," he spun his arms in circles, "I have twenty dollars! Do you know what this means?"

"… That you checked the couch cushions?"

"No! It means that we can go to the thrift shop!"

Canada snapped the novel closed with a clean _'crack'_ and raised an eyebrow.

"You want to go to the thrift shop?"

"Yes!"

Canada snorted.

"No way."

"C'mon, Matthew…" Prussia whined.

"No."

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Oh," he replied dryly, "I must have left it in my other coat. You know, my straight jacket."

"Okay, first of all," Prussia sat in his lap and held up a finger, "Straight jackets do not have pockets. I should know."

"Mmhmm." Canada set the novel on the coffee table and wrapped his arms around the other nation. Prussia held up a second finger.

"Secondly, we can buy you a new coat!"

Canada could not help but laugh at his enthusiasm even as he shook his head.

"Gilbert, I don't need a new coat. Or a used one either."

"C'mon. It'll be fun!"

"What part of picking through piles of soiled clothing is 'fun'?"

"Uhm, all of it? Duh."

"I don't want to go."

"But I do! C'mon! Let's go!"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Mattheeew! Please? C'mon! Please, please, please, please, please, please, pleeease?"

Canada tried to plug his ears but Prussia would not let him. He held onto his wrists and clapped his hands together against his will, making even more noise as he moaned.

"Argh! Fine, yes! We'll go tomorrow."

"Now, now, now…!"

* * *

Canada looked over the thrift shop with a critical eye less than an hour later. It was just as he feared with racks of mismatched clothes and oversized buckets of odds and ends. A couple of old women drifted through the not-quite-aisles and pawed through the articles with terse frowns.

The paint was peeling and the lightbulbs were flickering and the cashier looked as if she would rather be anywhere else.

Canada felt the same way.

"… I hate you," he mumbled.

"Look, Simba!" Prussia swept his hand over the mess. "Everything the light touches is cheap!"

"My name is Matthew and I still hate you…"

"Bah!" Prussia cackled and threw an arm over his shoulder, dragging him towards one of the bins. "How could you possibly hate me?! I'm adorable!"

Canada rolled his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. It was par for the course when hanging out with Prussia.

"It's a challenge but, somehow, I manage it," he mumbled. Prussia stopped choking him in order to dive into the bucket. His elbows disappeared beneath the scarves and hats and he still could not touch the bottom.

He pulled out an awful paisley scarf in maroon and purple. He beamed and wound it around his neck, showing it off with an over-the-top flamboyant spin. Canada snorted.

"Now I'm stylin'."

"You wish."

"Oh, look over there! C'mon!"

Canada glanced upwards, begging for divine intervention, but there was none to be found. He followed Prussia.

"Oh my god! Suspenders and bow ties! A cravat!"

Prussia picked through the bow ties, finding a red one and tying it around Canada's neck with a practiced motion. He made a 'voila' gesture when he was done.

Canada frowned and plucked at the bow tie.

"A bow tie? Really?"

"Hey, bow ties are cool."

"Sure…"

Prussia glanced over the piles of clothing, ignoring his sarcasm with ease. His eyes lit up as they landed on a rack of worn coats.

"Ooh! Look!"

Canada sighed as he trailed after him.

"This is stupid…"

"No, this is fucking awesome!"

Prussia held up a horrendous fur coat in leopard print. It was bare in patches and several sizes too large. The collar was large and unattractive.

"Oh dear… That's hideous…"

Prussia cocked his head to the side with a sweet, confused expression.

"So, you don't want it…?"

"No." Canada glared at the offending article of clothing. He wanted it to burst into sudden, inexplicable flames. "No, not at all."

"Wicked!" Prussia put it on and struck a pose. He admired himself in the mirror. "More for me then. Man, I look incredible!"

Canada opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. If it made Prussia happy, then it was indeed 'awesome'. It was that simple.

He smiled.

"Here, you're missing something…" Canada reached behind him and grabbed a faded wedding veil with a dozen holes. He set it on Prussia's head and laughed when he pursed his lips to blow Canada a kiss.

Prussia handed him a monocle and a pair of high heels. He shrugged and put them on.

He gave Prussia a purple handbag to go with his scarf.

The two of them were laughing uncontrollably now, bent over and slapping each other on the back. It was amazing how much joy twenty dollars had brought them…

Apparently, all you needed was a thrift shop and a good friend.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was ridiculously fun to write. Please tell me I am not the only person who thinks that this song was made for someone like Prussia. America would be just as bad, I think. Maybe that's why Canada refused to go. _

_Poland, on the other hand, would not be caught dead in a thrift shop._

_Is it wrong that I want someone to draw this…? It probably is..._

_I used to shop in thrift stores all the time when I was younger because my family was poor. We are better off now but I still enjoy perusing from time to time. It's remarkable what you can find. That said, some items should not be donated to Bedbugs and Beyond._

_I think that Canada would be fluent in Inuktitut, as well as other native languages. The Canadian Inuit dialect is different from the dialects spoken by the Inupiat in Alaska and the Inuktun of Greenland. I spent much of my childhood reading Inuit stories and legends because my grandparents used to live up north, as well as my uncle. I also spent two years working at an Inuit art gallery._

_All of my love, and a big thank you for the kind words and thoughts. You guys know who you are. Oh, and points for the 'bow ties' reference. _


	35. Eyes Closed

_This chapter was inspired by the song Eyes Closed by the Narratives. It was requested by Sweet Jelly Hearts._

**Eyes Closed**

"Look… I don't want to talk about it, alright? It's over. Just leave me alone."

"… Fine."

Matthew turned towards the window and pulled his legs up onto the passenger seat. He wrapped his arms around them. He rested his chin on his knees and watched the rain paint the road slick and black.

Gilbert clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The scrapes on his knuckles ached with the pressure.

A fight… Another stupid fight. Awful, and messy, and so very _pointless_.

And it was all his fault.

The rain splattered against the windshield faster than he could clear it. He frowned. It was getting harder and harder the see the twists and turns ahead.

How fitting…

The car hugged the railing. There was a mountain to one side of them and a sheer drop to the other.

Matthew closed his eyes and hugged his legs tighter. He hiccupped. His curls were soaking and pasted to his forehead. The streetlights coloured his pale face as the car zipped past in a constant light, dark, light, dark pattern.

He was beautiful.

Gilbert could not understand how their relationship seemed to become more and more complicated even as it became simpler. And it _was_ simple. It was crystal clear. He was in love with Matthew. And somehow that made it complicated.

And it hurt his head. And his heart.

He had never been in a long term relationship before. He had never liked anyone enough to bother.

And then he had met Matthew. And it all changed. Suddenly, he cared what _someone else_ thought of him. Suddenly, he wanted to make _someone else_ happy. He wanted to keep Matthew safe and sound and set him on a pedestal.

But, somehow, he kept screwing it up.

Gilbert flexed his fingers and hissed. The cuts on his hands split open again with the motion but he knew that he deserved it.

Another stupid fight… And it was all his fault.

He deserved it.

He clenched his hands even tighter. Blood dripped onto the steering wheel.

He deserved it. He deserved it. He…

Matthew sighed and reached for his right hand without opening his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Gilbert blinked in surprise.

"For _what_?"

"For this," Matthew ran his smooth fingertips over the cuts and spread the blood across his knuckles, all without looking. How did he always know? How?

Gilbert grimaced.

"It's my fault. I started it."

Matthew smiled, small and strained and perfect. He kept his eyes closed.

"And I finished it." He touched the bruise blossoming on his cheekbone. It stung.

"I'm sure you'd like to think that," Gilbert laughed but there was no humour to it. It was harsh and possessive and broken. He tightened his grip on Matthew.

Matthew returned the gesture.

"I beat you fair and square, admit it."

"… Okay."

Matthew finally opened his eyes and studied Gilbert. The streetlights caught the lavender in his eyes and highlighted the tears on his cheeks.

"And I still love you. I do."

"… Okay," Gilbert choked.

Matthew squeezed his hand again and turned back to the window.

"… I think the storm's letting up," he said after a moment. He continued to stroke his knuckles. "Don't you?"

Gilbert looked up at the clouds. The storm was getting worse and the skies danced with thunder and lightning. The rain was coming down even harder than before. It was not getting better. Not at all.

Just like them…

But he could pretend. For Matthew, he could pretend that everything was alright.

After all, it was the only thing he was good at.

"Yes, I think you're right…"

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This is not terribly long but it is the beginning of a month long 'Inspired' marathon. I owe you guys a little bit of love. And by 'a little bit', I mean thirty one shots._

_Love is strange. And I think that their fights would often end up in physical scuffles. Testosterone is like that._

_I disappeared for a little while there. I wanted to thank everyone who checked in on me, especially Mayurei13 and Fia Rose. It meant a lot to me even though I had some trouble responding._

_To be honest, I was suicidal. And it was scary. But I'm working on it. _

_If you or someone you love is struggling, please find someone to talk to. Whether they are a friend or a complete stranger, whether they are near or far, someone out there thinks that the world is a better place because you are in it._

_I am still taking requests, so feel free to send me song recommendations. I plan to get through a bunch of them this week. (I found my list!)_

_All of my love. Truly._


	36. Ordinary Day

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Ordinary Day' by Vanessa Carlton. And I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words of encouragement and for their assurances that it will all be alright. Eventually._

_I am not sure if you know how much it means to me, but trust me, it means the world._

**Ordinary Day**

Canada stretched his arms over his head with a smile and a sigh. The bedsheets were tousled and cold beside him but he was not worried. He could hear the clattering of dishes downstairs.

And that meant breakfast.

He reached for the polar bear draped across his legs and scratched behind his ears. Kumajirou leaned into his hand with a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Canada laughed.

"What are you laughing about?" Prussia asked as he stepped into their bedroom with a cup of tea and a pile of toast. Gilbird cheeped from his perch on top of his head.

Canada pointed at the twitching animal.

"Him."

"Ah, of course. The _monster_," Prussia drawled as he sat down on the edge of the mattress. He handed Canada the cup of tea and glared at the polar bear.

Kumajirou nuzzled against Canada, softer and sweeter than usual. He was taunting the other nation.

Prussia narrowed his gaze.

"He's not a monster!"

"He is too, and you know it."

"Gilbert..."

"No, he is." Prussia shook his head and picked up a piece of toast. It was smeared with marmalade. "Here, have some toast."

Canada pouted and sipped his tea.

"I don't want any. You're mean."

"Not to _you_."

"You're mean to my bear. That's the same thing."

"Is not."

"Is too."

Prussia scrunched his nose.

"Look, just eat your damn toast."

"No."

"Eat it."

"No!"

"Oh, you asked for it!"

Prussia lunged forward and straddled the squirming blonde. Canada held the cup of tea over his head and giggled.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry! You're going to make me spill. Get off! I'm sorry!"

"Not yet you're not." Prussia tore off a piece of toast and jammed it in his mouth. Canada coughed and tried to talk around his breakfast.

"Mmmfff mmn nnn!"

Prussia cackled and stuffed another piece into his mouth before he could swallow.

"Nuh uh! You're going to eat it all."

"Mmmnnn!"

"Eat it!"

Kumajirou sighed, feeling ignored, and dragged himself out of his warm nest of blankets. Gilbird landed on top of his head with a similar sound of exasperation.

Tea splashed on the floorboards as breakfast turned into a wrestling match.

The animals tiptoed out of the bedroom to a chorus of laughter and cries for help.

* * *

Prussia held the other nation's hand and buried his face into his scarf. It had been a gift from Canada, handmade, more than a decade ago.

Canada squeezed his hand back and leaned into the wind. He was wearing an oversized plaid sweater in orange and maroon and an awful 'toque' in neon green. His cheeks were flushed.

It was the beginning of spring and snow still covered the grass in places.

"Where should we go first?"

"The toy store," Prussia answered without hesitation.

Canada quirked an eyebrow.

"... That wasn't one of the options. We're running errands, remember? Serious business?"

"Toys _are_ serious business."

"Oh really?"

"Mmhmm. They're the first step in my quest for world domination."

Canada snorted but the corners of his mouth turned upwards at the mention of world domination.

"Gilbert, we've talked about this..."

"No, _you_ talked about it. _I_ ignored you."

"As usual…"

* * *

"What about this?" Canada held up a bunch of fennel. Prussia squinted at it.

"Well... What _is_ it?"

"It's a vegetable, Gilbert." Canada sighed and dropped the fennel into a plastic bag. He tied a knot.

"... Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Canada sauntered to the next bin of produce and started inspecting the asparagus.

"What about this?" He held up a bundle.

"What _about_ it?"

"Do you want asparagus for dinner?"

Prussia shrugged.

"Not really."

"Okay then. We'll get it." Canada put it into another plastic bag.

"... Why did you ask if you were just going to get it anyway?"

Canada patted his arm and moved to the next bin.

"Because I want you to feel useful, dear." He looked over the strawberries and pineapples. "What kind of fruit do you want?"

Prussia smirked and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sweetheart, you're the only kind of '_fruit_' I need."

Canada blinked.

"Hey!"

* * *

"Maaattheeew!"

"We're almost home."

"You said that five minutes ago!"

"And what do you know, we're even closer now. Imagine that." Canada readjusted his grip of the groceries. He smiled at Prussia.

"… I'm not sure I like you anymore…"

"Oh no! How can I go on?!" Canada tossed his head back and clutched at his heart. The sarcasm was palatable. "Cruel world!"

Prussia pouted.

"Okay, now I'm sure I don't like you anymore."

Canada laughed and skipped ahead.

* * *

"Where are the candles?"

Canada peeked out of the kitchen where he was cooking dinner. He wielded the wooden spoon as if it were a weapon and the sauce dripped on the carpet.

He raised an eyebrow.

"What do you need candles for?"

"Candles are romantic!" Prussia proclaimed. He was rifling through a drawer in the bureau with both hands.

"Uh…"

"Nevermind, found them!" He held up two candles with a cackle of triumph. "Perfect."

He set them on the tablecloth and straightened the napkins with careful consideration. He readjusted the knives. Prussia looked over the scene with a self satisfied smile, hands on his hips and chest out.

"… You're weird. It's just dinner." Canada turned back into the kitchen and Prussia bounced after him. He wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck when he reached the oven.

"No, I'm awesome." Prussia trailed kisses between his shoulder blades and delighted in the little shivers. "And you're wrong. It's not 'just dinner', it's dinner with _you_."

* * *

Canada sat in front of the fireplace with a novel in his hands and Prussia in his lap. The other nation was sitting on the floor between his legs and teasing the polar bear.

"Don't be mean," he sighed.

"I'm not."

"You are too."

Prussia tweaked his nose and Kumajirou smacked at his hand. Prussia snorted.

"He knows what he did."

Canada looked down at the two of them and frowned.

"You're impossible."

"Not impossible. Just improbable, that's all."

"Mmhmm."

Canada turned back to his novel and tried to tune them out. Gilbird was keeping out of trouble and dozing in his curls to the sound of light snoring.

It was almost an hour before Prussia spoke up again.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?"

Canada peered over the worn pages of the book in his hands. The polar bear had fallen asleep on Prussia and the nation kept one hand scratching behind his ear and the other hand on his knee. He looked content.

Canada smiled.

"This. Just this."

"You want to… Go shopping and make dinner?"

"Yes."

"But that's so… Ordinary."

He laughed.

"Exactly."

Prussia frowned and thought it over, still petting the animal on his lap.

"Oh."

"Mmhmm…"

Another couple of minutes passed before Prussia leapt up and tossed Kumajirou onto the sofa. He landed without jostling the pillows and turned over, still sleeping. Gilbird flew after him.

Prussia stood over Canada with a feral grin.

"I think I know how to make it _extra_ordinary!" He bent his fingers and stepped closer.

"Uhm…" Canada closed his novel and backed up as far as the armchair would allow. "How?"

"Like this!" Prussia pounced and scooped Canada up with practiced ease. He tossed him over his shoulder and started marching towards their bedroom.

Canada screeched.

"Ah! Ah! Put me down!" He hammered on his back and wiggled, laughing. "What are you doing?!"

"Here, let me _show_ you."

* * *

Prussia stared down at the blonde curled in his arms. There were love bites on his neck and knots in his hair. His cheeks were flushed.

Prussia pulled the bedsheets up higher to cover them both and Canada snuggled against his chest with a soft moan.

"That was nice," he sighed.

"I'll say," Prussia laughed. He held the other nation's hand and ran his thumb over his knuckles.

"We should do it again tomorrow."

Prussia shrugged.

"I think we can manage that…"

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Again, thank you, thank you, thank you for the kind words. I will be getting back to you all before the weekend. Life has just been, well, you know._

… _And I think that Prussia and Kumajirou would have a rivalry of sorts, but I also think that they would like and even respect each other. In either case, they would get along just for Canada. Or at least try to._

_This was just a day, an ordinary day, in their life together. Because we all know how much I enjoy writing these. (A lot. The answer is 'a lot'.)_

_All of my love, and see you again tomorrow._


	37. Structure

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Structure' by Innerpartysystem. It was requested by denise134. Thank you!_

**Structure**

Canada leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, watching the other nation preen in the mirror. He frowned as Prussia combed his hair back with careful consideration. He was standing with his feet apart and his shoulders back. His mouth was set in a taut grimace.

He looked more like his brother than himself. Where was his crooked smile? His slouching shoulders and exaggerated mannerisms?

Canada tapped his fingers against his arms in a comforting pattern of one, two, three.

Who was this man?

"Gilbert…" Canada sighed, pushing off of the doorframe. "Where is your uniform?"

"I'm wearing it," Prussia said, his voice hollow as he straightened the lapels of the green uniform. It looked awful and _wrong_ on the pale nation. Just wrong.

"No, that's _Ludwig's_ uniform."

"I'm part of Germany now. I have to wear the same uniform as him."

Canada stepped into the washroom.

"Did Ludwig say that?"

"No."

"Did his boss?"

"No."

"Then _why_?" Canada asked, exasperated. It felt like Prussia was losing himself. It was getting harder and harder to find the man he had fallen in love with. He knew that Prussia was depressed, and confused, and lost in the echoing, black depths of his dissolution.

He knew that, but it was still hard.

"Look, I can't wear _Prussian Blue _anymore. I'm part of Germany now. It's all I have left." He pressed his palm against the mirror, covering his face, and his knuckles went white with the pressure of holding himself together. "Let me be."

Canada wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. He studied the man in the mirror.

"Gilbert, you're still _you_. That hasn't changed. You're still Gilbert."

His eyes hardened.

"I can't be Gilbert. I have to be Ludwig."

"I don't _want_ Ludwig. I want you. You. I fell in love with _you_, not your brother."

"Matthew…"

"No, damn it. What are you trying to prove?"

"That I still matter!" Prussia growled. He tried to wiggle out of his arms but Canada tightened his grasp. He knocked the products off of the sick instead. "That I still exist! That I have a place in this world!"

"You do have a place! It's here, with me!"

"That doesn't count!" Prussia turned around in his arms so that he was facing the other nation.

"It does too!"

"It does not!"

Prussia growled. There were splotches of colour high on his cheekbones. Canada glared at him and wound his fingers into the foreign uniform. He tugged him even closer.

Prussia bared his teeth. Canada hissed.

And then he kissed him.

It was sloppy and desperate and greedy. Their teeth banged together. Prussia slipped his hands under his sweater while Canada pushed him up onto the sink and ruffled his hair.

"I want _you_, Gilbert. You, you, _you_." Canada whispered in between kisses.

"I can't… I can't…"

"Yes, you can. You don't have to change. No one wants you to change."

Canada started unbuttoning his uniform. He ran his fingers over the white undershirt beneath the terrible green jacket. He tugged on his identification tags.

Prussia wound his legs around Canada and pulled him even closer.

He slipped his hands under and dusted his fingers over the scars that Prussia, not Germany, had earned. He traced the patterns of his history; the battles, the language, the horrors. The bliss of a nation, and the suffering. The past.

"I can't… I want to but…"

"Gilbert, I love you. Just the way you are." Canada kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and then his lips again. He decorated his face in kisses.

Prussia was gasping now, not quite crying but as close as he ever came.

"I… I… I…"

Canada tossed the jacket onto the tiles and unbuckled his belt, pressing against him. Prussia held onto his shoulders and threw his head back, hitting it against the mirror.

"You, you, _you_."

He kissed his collarbone and the chain of scars adorning it. Prussia bucked against him.

"I can't…"

"You _can_," Canada stressed. "I know you can. Here, let me help you out of that uniform…"

Canada pulled down his pants and kicked them to the side. He ran his hands over Prussia, pausing for a moment to lavish each scar. He kissed them.

Prussia was ashen and thin and covered in wounds. His hipbones pushed against his skin; his wrists and ankles were skeletal and prominent. Canada pushed between his legs and his feet dug into his back, holding him close.

His crimson eyes burnt with fear and lust and something deeper. Darker.

Scarier.

And Canada loved him all the more for it.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I like this one a lot, although I cannot pinpoint the exact reason. It was nice to explore the loss of identity in the dissolution of a nation. Nice, but sad. _

_Still, at least he has Canada._

_All of my love. The saga continues tomorrow._


	38. Plant Life

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Plant Life' by Owl City. It was requested by Mayurei13 a long time ago. Sorry, m'dear, that I am only getting around to it now._

**Plant Life**

Prussia felt like the world was spinning. He laid flat on his back, clutching at the floorboards as if it might keep him grounded. The dust was soft beneath his fingertips.

The splinters beneath the dust were not as forgiving.

He started as the house creaked with the footsteps of another person. It sounded so foreign. It had been a lifetime since someone else walked these corridors.

And now Canada was upstairs.

He tightened his grasp on the floorboards and turned his head to look out the window. The sun poured through the windowpanes where Canada had thrown open the shutters.

It was all so foreign…

White bedsheets covered the furniture, except for the one armchair he used when he was home. Which was almost never. There was a path through the dust where he would pace.

It just made it more obvious which footprints were his, and which ones belonged the other nation.

The fireplace was coated in soot and grime and the photographs on the mantelpiece were water damaged and discoloured. The floorboards were warped. It was not much of a home, to be honest. Just a house that he happened to own.

He had been alone too long for it to be a 'home'.

Canada came down the stairs draped in a white bedsheet and holding a wicker basket. The bedsheet covered his hair and shoulders and was wrapped around his arms. It dragged through the dust.

His feet were bare, despite Prussia telling him it was too dangerous, and he walked through the dirt and clutter with an eerie, silent grace.

"Gilbert, I thought we could…" Canada paused. "What are you doing?"

Prussia frowned at him without sitting up.

"… What are _you_ doing?" He asked, pointing to the bedsheet and basket. Canada furrowed his eyebrows.

"I thought we could go for a picnic."

"A picnic…" Prussia said, testing the word on his tongue and tasting it. He had never been on a picnic before.

"Yes, a _picnic_. You know, a blanket, some sandwiches... Ants. Now, what are you doing?"

Prussia snorted and rolled over onto his stomach.

"Freaking out, mostly."

Canada sat down next to him and crossed his legs. He readjusted the bedsheet as Prussia crawled into his lap.

"Why?"

"Because you're in my house."

"And…?"

"_You_ are _in_ my _house_."

Canada blinked and set the basket down. He stared at Prussia.

Prussia stared back.

"… Is that a problem?"

"No. Yes! No."

Canada laughed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Alright then."

Prussia batted at his hand.

"It's just, no one ever visits me here. No one. Except you're here, right now. And I'm freaking out."

"Mmm…" Canada ignored his agitation and continued to run his fingers through his hair with a thoughtful hum. "Do you mind?"

"Yes. No… Maybe." Prussia threw his arms into the air. "I don't know!"

Canada was quiet for a long time as he stroked his hair. The sunlight spilling through the window caught in his curls and danced across the white bedsheet.

He was stunning.

And, somehow, he fit in with the rest of the house. Old photographs and new friends; a thousand bedsheets covering a thousand pieces of unimportant furniture and one bedsheet covering someone very, _very _important.

The dust suited him. But the sunshine suited him more.

Prussia leaned into his ministrations and Canada smiled.

"… So would you like to go on a picnic?"

"Yes. Definitely."

Prussia leapt up and reached for the basket, helping Canada up in the same motion. He held onto his hand and refused to let go.

Canada opened the door. The sunlight poured in, even more than before, and made it hard to see. The porch moaned under their weight.

Prussia squinted.

The leaves on the trees were vibrant and rustled in the wind to a tune of their own. The grass was long and overgrown.

Birds sang from their perches, sweet and delicate and beautiful.

Daisies pushed up through the porch.

He looked at Canada. Canada looked back and squeezed his hand, reassuring and gentle. It spoke volumes: that there was no rush, that they could take their time.

That Prussia was not alone anymore…

He smiled and squeezed back.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Yes, this request was waiting for a long time… Dum dee dee dum dee… This song would actually work very well with 'Dare' as well, for obvious reasons. It is an awful sweet song._

_And yes, it is worth panicking when someone new comes into your private sanctuary. It's __weird__. Trust me._

_All of my love._


	39. Howl

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Howl' by Florence and the Machine. It was requested by Inked-Pawprints awhile ago (although there have been a lot of requests for songs by this band)._

**Howl**

Prussia stepped forward with his lips pulled back in a frightening smile. His teeth gleamed.

His jeans were torn and his knees were awful and bloodied. His chest was bare and his pale skin seemed to shine with the moonlight. His crimson stare was dark and foreboding in contrast.

Canada took a step backwards.

"What's the matter, little boy? Scared?"

Canada swallowed.

"No…"

"You should be," he hissed, taking another step forward. Canada pressed his back against the tree behind him, clutching at the lichen. He had reached the edge of the forest.

Prussia slammed his hand against the tree and Canada flinched. He leaned in and nuzzled his neck. He kissed behind his ear. He breathed in his scent.

"What are you…?"

Prussia bit his collarbone and Canada bucked against him.

"Run," he whispered, dragging his fingers through his hair.

And so he ran.

Canada pushed him off and darted through the trees. His blonde curls bounced and reflected the stars until he was so far in that he was invisible.

Prussia grinned and counted to ten.

"One, two, three, four…"

He _liked_ Canada, sure, but he was in love with the chase.

"… Five, six, seven…"

Hunting was in his bones. It pumped through his heart and it coloured his soul. His dreams.

It was who he was, inside. He was a hunter at his core.

He was in love with the chase.

"… Eight, nine, _ten_!"

Prussia tore after him.

The leaves and branches smacked against his face as he danced around the trees. The vines and underbrush caught on his toes and cut the bottom of his feet. Thorns engraved whorls on his palms.

And that was how he wanted it.

He stopped all of a sudden and cocked his head to the side, listening. He felt feral. He felt free. The forest hummed with insects and sighed with relief as he marched past sleeping mammals. The birds chirped, startled, when he clawed at the trees and jostled their nests.

"What's the matter?" He asked again, singing as he strode through the dirt and rocks. He glanced up at the moon and squinted. "Are you afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?"

He heard a quiet gasp to the west and followed the sound, arriving just in time to see Canada disappear behind a boulder. That one errant curl quivered in the wind and marked his position.

His smile widened.

"Good."

Prussia pounced, jumping into view. Canada shrieked and punched him. Hard. He crumpled and massaged his chin with rough fingertips. His jaw clicked with the motion. He licked his lips, tasting blood, and watched Canada run. It tasted delicious.

He laughed and scrambled after him.

Canada dashed through the trees, darting left and right, but Prussia was gaining. Canada kept glancing back.

And Prussia kept gaining.

He lunged and tackled Canada to the dirt, turning him over and straddling his waist. He pinned his wrists above his head.

Canada glowered, defiant and rebellious and beautiful. Prussia kissed him.

He tugged his sweater over his head and tousled his curls. He dragged his fingernails over his skin and delighted in the little murmurs and growls that escaped his swollen lips.

Canada scratched at the hands holding him down, desperate and wild and _caught_. He hissed and pressed against the other nation, aching for release.

Prussia smirked.

"Well, well, well… What do we have here?" He sucked and nibbled on his collarbone, softer and gentler than before and softer than Canada wanted. He was teasing him... Taunting him. Tempting him. "The Boy Who Cried Wolf, perhaps?"

Canada tossed his head back and snarled.

"Just _fuck_ me already!"

Prussia cackled and rocked forward.

"My pleasure…"

He howled at the moon.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uhm… This ended up being about the thrill of the chase and, well, about being caught. I love this song but it gets stuck in my head. And then I start stalking through the corridors. And then it gets awkward… Really awkward...  
_

_Somehow, I imagine Canada is more in control of the situation than he lets on. After all, being caught is half of the fun. For _obvious_ reasons._

_All of my love._


	40. Stay

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Stay' by Rihanna._

**Stay**

Matthew sat in the alcove and pressed his hand against the windowpane. His breath frosted the window with each sigh.

Gilbert stood outside in the snow with a brilliant red suitcase. He was looking at the house, at Matthew, refusing to come in but unable to leave. Snowflakes caught in his hair and settled on his broad shoulders.

He had been standing there for an hour.

Matthew pulled his feet up onto the seat and nestled into the blanket, worn and soft against his bare chest. He was naked and cold and dead inside but he refused to move. He refused to give up that last sliver of hope.

His knuckles were white and his fingertips were pink but he pressed harder as if he might be able to reach the man on the other side. His forehead smacked against the windowpane.

He wanted him to stay.

Gilbert watched him with an unreadable expression. His footprints had long since disappeared in the falling snow. It was as if he had always been there, watching. Waiting…

Matthew did not know what he was waiting for…

He curled his toes in an effort to warm up but it was a lost cause. The cold had seeped into his bones and into his heart.

He smacked his forehead against the windowpane again.

The suitcase resting in the snow was fever bright and vivid. It was impossible to ignore. That suitcase carried a lifetime of memories and dreams. It carried their past.

And their future…

He let his forehead bounce against the window again and again and again.

Gilbert flinched.

The blanket around his shoulders was pale blue and falling apart. It was stained with a thousand kisses, a hundred arguments, and a dozen rainstorms. It was painted with their sweat and tears. It represented their life together.

He tightened his grasp on it and stared at Gilbert, wanting him to stay, no, needing him to stay. He wanted to throw himself at his feet and beg but his pride would not let him. He wanted to apologize but the words died on his lips.

His forehead hit the windowpane again. His fingers ached.

But he refused to move.

The snow continued to dance around Gilbert and the suitcase was more white than red now. How much time had passed? How long had he been standing there?

How long had Matthew been watching him?

The sun started setting in the west and coloured the clouds in purples and oranges.

Gilbert took a step forward.

And then another one.

And another one.

He approached the window and studied Matthew, chewing on his lip. He was unsure... Worried.

Vulnerable.

Then he raised a tentative hand and pressed it against the windowpane, mirroring the blonde. His hand was bigger and Matthew could feel the heat radiating from his palm through the frost.

Gilbert cocked his head to the side in a silent, unspoken question. His gaze never left his face.

He wanted to stay.

Matthew sobbed, sudden and harsh, and nodded his head. The tears streaked down his cheeks and decorated the blanket because the answer was obvious, so obvious.

He wanted him to stay. Of course he wanted him to stay.

So he would.

Gilbert turned around and picked up the suitcase. A moment later the door opened and he collapsed in front of Matthew, still covered in snow. The suitcase sat alone in the den, red and white and meaningful.

Matthew wrapped his arms around the other man and cried.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_There is a vulnerability to this song that catches my attention. It is very simple and somehow very powerful. And so is this piece. (And short, but there was not much else to add.)_

_There is no dialogue in this chapter because no words are needed. Matthew wants him to stay, Gilbert wants to stay, but both of them know it would be better to go. Relationships are like that sometimes._

_All of my love._


	41. When I Was Your Man

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'When I Was Your Man' by Bruno Mars. It was requested by Darkfoot._

**When I Was Your Man**

Gilbert pressed his hands into his pockets and kept his head down. He was wearing dark clothes and a hat in an attempt to remain inconspicuous but it just highlighted the fact that he no longer belonged here.

So he kept to the shadows.

Old friends and neighbours walked around him on the street, ignoring him. It hurt, but he refused to move. He was waiting for someone.

He sighed and checked his wristwatch. It was 2145 hours. He would be here in a minute or two.

Gilbert scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for one in particular. He worried his lip and thought about leaving.

And then he saw him. And there was no escape.

Matthew walked down the other side of the street and his breath caught in his throat. There was a bouquet of tulips nestled in his arm and another man holding his hand. He looked content.

Gilbert backed further into the shadows.

Matthew twirled around and kissed the other man on his cheek, giggling. The other man laughed and pulled him even closer, kissing him on the lips. Matthew melted into him.

And Gilbert took another step backwards.

He wanted to run across the street and step between them. He wanted to throw those flowers on the sidewalk and stomp on them until the petals were paste and the stems were in pieces.

He wanted to do a lot of things, most of them horrible and selfish and rude, but more than that…

He wanted Matthew to be happy.

Gilbert wanted him to have everything that he could never give him. He wanted Matthew to be with someone who would spend time with him and never brush him off; someone who would give him gifts and take him out on dates. He wanted him to be with someone who was not afraid to dance.

He took another step backwards.

Matthew ran up the steps to his apartment and the man chased after him. He kissed the back of his neck as Matthew fiddled with his keys and then the two of them disappeared.

Gilbert pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering why he kept doing this to himself. Matthew had kicked him out four months ago. It was over. Done.

But every night he stood on this corner and waited for Matthew to come home. He never said anything; never called attention to himself. He just wanted to see him, if only for a moment.

He should have appreciated Matthew when he had the chance, and now he was with another man.

And he had to stop doing this to himself. It was cruel.

Gilbert turned on his heel and took off down the backlane. He clenched his teeth and tried to remember how to breathe. In, out, in, out.

It was not helping.

He growled and kicked the garbage cans.

He had to stop doing this to himself but he knew that he would be back tomorrow.

After all, one more night could not hurt. It was too late.

His heart was already broken.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uhm, this is rather short but it is sort of like the previous chapter in that there is no dialogue. In the previous chapter, they decided to give it another chance. In this one, well… Not so much. (Gilbert… That's stalking, m'dear…)_

_I know the previous chapter hit a little close to home for some people so please forgive me for this one. _

_Wow… I cannot believe how many chapters there are to this. And there will be another twenty or so before the end of the month. The next chapter will be longer and, I think, more cheerful. _

_Love!_


	42. It's The End Of The World As We Know It

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'It's The End Of The World As We Know It' by R.E.M._

**It's The End Of The World As We Know It**

Prussia kicked the zombie in the chest and brought the baseball bat down on its head. Brains splattered on his boots and he jumped backwards.

"Oh, gross!"

"Nice one!" America cried, knocking another zombie to the dirt. He hit it with an axe and sidestepped the gore to punch Prussia on the shoulder. "The first three rows _will_ get wet!"

Prussia punched him back and stepped around another zombie. It was another five minutes and thirteen zombies before there was a moment to catch their breath. The two of them collapsed against each other.

"That was… That was…" Prussia gasped.

"Awesome!"

He turned to glare at the other nation.

"You're not allowed to use that word…"

"Ah, bite me."

"You wish."

The street was littered with garbage and dead bodies. The cars were crumpled and coated with guts and brains. Shopping carts were turned over. Tattered clothing fluttered in the wind.

It had been a decade since armageddon and the dead still walked the earth.

Prussia scanned the horizon, looking for a gleam of blonde hair amongst the colourless debris. The town was ruined, just like the last one and the one before it. It was an occupational hazard in these difficult times.

"What's keeping him?"

"Mattie will be fine," America patted him on the back. "You know him, the zombies would have to catch him first."

"Still…"

Canada sprinted around the corner with a worn satchel and a handful of white. He was missing a shoe but it seemed to be the least of his worries.

"Go, go, go!" He screamed, dashing past them. Prussia and America exchanged glances.

"Where's the fire?" America shouted, laughing.

"Behind me!"

The two of them turned just in time to see a horde of at least a hundred more zombies turning the same corner.

"Oh shit…"

* * *

"That was… That was…" Canada sat on the wooden fence and massaged his bare foot. The horde was far enough behind them that he could wrap it with bits of his shirt and some old twine.

"Not awesome!" America supplied. Prussia smacked him upside the head.

"You still can't use that word."

He bent down to examine his foot but Canada hissed and pulled back his leg.

"Yeowch," America rubbed the back of his head. "I thought that town was 'clean' now. Where did you even find those bastards?"

"In the meadow…"

"What the fuck were you doing in the meadow? That's not part of the safe zone!"

Canada lowered his gaze and mumbled into his scarf.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," he drawled with his hands on his hips.

"I said," Canada reached behind him and held up a handful of miniscule white clovers, "that I was picking flowers."

"You risked your life for… Flowers?" America asked, confused. Prussia looked between the clovers and Canada, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"No," Canada returned the smile, "I risked my life for flowers… For Gilbert."

He tucked them behind his ear and kissed his cheek. Prussia burst into laughter, caught somewhere between anger and absolute happiness.

"You idiot! You absolute idiot! I love you!"

"Uhm… Am I missing something?"

Prussia was not sure whether he wanted to beat the shit out of the endearing blonde or hug him and never let go. He had complained last week, in passing conversation, that he had not seen a single flower since the end of the world.

And so Canada had brought him flowers, at the risk of his own life.

He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and shook him.

"If you ever, ever do that again, there won't be anything left for the zombies. You hear me? I will _kill _you!"

Canada laughed and kissed him again, this time on the other cheek.

"Yes dear."

* * *

America rifled through the satchel and pulled out multiple cans without labels. He studied them in the sunlight.

"What do you think is in this one?"

"Lima beans," Canada decided. America held up another can.

"And this one?"

"Corn."

"… Are you just guessing?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

The three of them were walking down an old dirt road towards their campsite, keeping a look out for wandering zombies. Most of the undead kept to the cities and towns but their location was impossible to guarantee and no one wanted to chance it.

"Why do you even care?" Prussia wondered. "Food is food."

"I don't like green peas," America shrugged. Canada bit his lip and tried to stifle his laughter.

Prussia stopped short.

"Seriously?! That's what you're worried about?! Not the zombies or starving or exposure?!"

"Hey, green peas are fucking terrifying..."

* * *

Prussia twirled the clover between his fingers in wonderment. Each flower was perfect and beautiful. Canada came up beside him and reached for his other hand.

America walked ahead of them, muttering to himself and sorting through the satchel. He grimaced whenever he came across a vegetable he did not like.

"What are you thinking about?" Canada asked. He ran his thumb over his knuckles, soft and soothing despite the dirt under his fingernails.

"I'm thinking about what an idiot you are…"

"Then why are you smiling?"

Prussia touched his face.

"Am I?"

"Mmhmm."

"It's just…" He paused. "I never thought that I would see a flower again. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Canada laughed. He put his hand on the base of his neck and pulled Prussia down, planting a kiss on his lips.

It was a little desperate.

"Mmmpff!"

* * *

"We're back!" America shouted as the campsite came into view. Humans and nations scrambled out of the shelters, armed to the teeth. "And we brought food!"

Northern Italy ran up to them and Prussia twirled him around before setting him back down.

"You're still alive!"

"It would take more than a couple of zombies to kill us," Prussia laughed. Northern Italy stole the satchel from America and started digging through it.

"What did you bring me? What did you bring me?!"

America ruffled his hair.

"Actually, we have no idea. Half of the labels are missing."

"Do you think that there might be pasta?"

"Man, I hope so."

Germany marched over to them and took the satchel from Northern Italy with a stern expression. Northern Italy giggled and hugged his arm.

He saluted his brother.

"Good job."

"Always," Prussia returned the gesture with a flick of his wrist and a smirk.

More nations swarmed them, at least the ones who had survived armageddon, to shake their hands and ask questions. The cans of food were passed out amongst them.

_"What happened?"_

_"What took you so long?"_

_"Are you alright?"_

Canada cleared his throat and started weaving between them, tugging Prussia behind him.

"Look, we would love to chat but we have a... Uhm, a date."

"A… Date?" Germany asked. Prussia leaned forward and pretended to whisper in his ear as he walked past. He did not lower his voice at all.

"He means _sex_. Lots and lots of _sex_."

"Shut up, Gilbert."

Germany looked at America and motioned after them.

"… What was that about?"

America shrugged.

"Something about zombies and green peas and flowers... I stopped paying attention. They were weird before the apocalypse and they're weird now."

Germany and Northern Italy just nodded and watched them go.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was just a bit of fun because the last couple of chapters were so depressing. I would like to write more pieces set after the apocalypse. I very much enjoyed writing this one and chapter thirty five before it._

_Also, zombies._

_I think that these three would be a perfect at running for supplies. Canada would do most of the legwork because he is hard to see and hard to catch. Prussia and America would be muscle._

_And yes, they were idiots before the end of the world, and they're still idiots. But sometimes a simple flower means so much more. It can mean hope._

_America… Sweetheart… You're an idiot too… You were never paying attention. And eat your green peas, damn it!_

_We hit four hundred reviews! What do I do? What do I do?! (Runs around in circles.)_


	43. Radioactive

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Radioactive' by Imagine Dragons. It was requested by both BloodSuckingFerret and Techno-Organic. Thank you! (I wanted to write another apocalypse piece…)_

**Radioactive**

Matthew crawled over the debris and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He could see the world from up here, not that there was much to see anymore. The sprawling suburban streets were in ruins and the houses burnt to charcoal. The sunset was a brilliant shade violet due to pollution and chemical warfare.

It was beautiful, after a fashion, but it was dangerous.

Gilbert climbed up after him and whistled, low and sweet.

"Not much left, is there?"

Matthew shook his head and held out his hand. Gilbert squeezed it.

The two of them used to live here, once upon a time, before the apocalypse stole it all away from them. Matthew could see the corner store from here, and the old park... The bus stop. The community centre and the new ice rink. He could see the coffee shop that they used to frequent in the evenings.

He could also see the rotting corpses of his friends and neighbours.

He took a deep breath and relied on the respirator he was wearing to keep him safe. The air was no longer viable.

"I guess we should go see…"

Gilbert took a step down and helped Matthew keep his balance, like a gentleman. It was strange how important the simple gestures became when civilization crumbled. Morals and manners became the new guiding stars in place of government and religion.

The government had failed them, after all. So had religion. Manners had yet to.

The streets were familiar but foreign as they picked their way through the remains. The houses were husks of their former splendour. The lawns were blackened with oil and the flowerbeds were stark.

Matthew felt like crying when they passed an abandoned tricycle next to a splatter of gore.

The apocalypse had been bad enough on its own but when the population panicked… Well, Matthew was pretty sure that the child had not suffocated.

Humans were cruel, especially when they should be standing together.

Sometimes, they would rather tear each other apart.

Matthew and Gilbert had escaped before the neighbourhood imploded. It looked like they were the lucky ones.

They turned the corner, and then another, and came face to face with their house.

And this time, he did cry.

Matthew stepped up to the red mailbox and ran his fingertips over it, memorizing the contours. He peeked inside on a whim but, of course, there was no mail to be found.

Gilbert pushed the front door open and went inside. It was unlocked.

Matthew followed him.

The house was just how they left it, if not a little dustier. Their sofa was still in front of the fireplace and photographs decorated the mantelpiece. The photographs showcased their wedding, a date at the fair, a vacation… Their life together. Their friends and family were collected in frames and forgotten.

There was no time to dwell on the past. Besides, it hurt too much.

Matthew turned away.

Gilbert was in the kitchen, collecting cans and supplies with a stern expression. He had always been practical, even before the apocalypse. The end of the world had just made him even more resolute and determined.

Matthew walked up the stairs to their bedroom and blinked.

The goddamned bed was still made. _Fuck_.

He sank into the mattress and sobbed, holding his head with both of his hands. This house had represented their hopes for the future, for a family of their own and a lifetime spent in each other's arms.

It had represented infinite possibilities and a life together, filled with love and laughter and small miracles.

And now it was all gone.

He was not sure when Gilbert came in. He sat down next to him and held him close. Matthew cried into his chest, letting the fears and frustrations course down his cheeks.

When he was done, he felt better.

Gilbert tucked one of his curls behind his ear and removed his mask to kiss him on the forehead.

"You're beautiful," he whispered. Matthew hiccupped, laughing. He knew that he was covered in dirt and grime and that his eyes were swollen.

"You're just saying that."

"No," Gilbert lowered him onto the bed and crawled over him like they had crawled over the debris of their hometown. He started unbuttoning his shirt and trailing kisses across his stomach. "I mean it."

Matthew watched him and felt his heart twinge. Gilbert was gorgeous, and in the end, he was in love with him.

It was not the house or the neighbourhood. He was in love with _Him_.

And the end of the world had not changed that.

Matthew reached up and tugged off his own mask, willing to chance the pollution for a moment with his sweetheart. He kissed him on the lips and pulled him down.

It would be the last time the two of them ever made love on this bed. And that made it special.

"I love you," he breathed. The air burnt with each gasp but he did not care.

"I love you more."

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Yes, I really just wanted to write another piece set after the end of the world. There is a lot to explore. Chapter thirty five dealt with cyborgs, chapter forty two dealt with zombies, and this one dealt with chemical warfare but it's all the same in the end._

_It's important to appreciate what you have when you still have it, and after too. I think that this trip home put it into perspective for Matthew._

_All of my love!_


	44. When You Taught Me How To Dance

_This chapter was inspired by the song When You Taught Me How To Dance by Katie Melua. It was requested by… Oh dear, I've forgotten. If you requested this one, please raise your hand._

**When You Taught Me How To Dance**

The Dominion of Canada kept to the sidelines. He always had. It was in his nature to be quiet and unassuming. Polite. He was a wallflower.

He worried the starched collar of his velvet jacket, watching the nations twirl around the ballroom in brilliant silks and brocades.

He was alone. His brothers and sisters were not nearly as shy as he was and they mingled and danced with the older nations. They seemed so much more graceful and eloquent and poised and he was jealous. He was none of those things.

So he just kept out of the way.

He ran his fingers over his smooth jacket and concentrated on the stitching. The buttons. It was blue with red trim and he was proud of it. His trousers were pressed and his shoes caught the candlelight. His brother had tied a red ribbon in his hair and it kept his curls from falling into his eyes.

He looked up when the music changes again, the orchestra readjusting, and frowned as nations switched partners amongst laughter. Even nations at war with each other were civil when there was excellent music and wine abounding.

Canada was not allowed any wine. It did not seem to matter how old he _actually_ was, just how old he looked. And he looked about thirteen.

One of his sisters ran past him in bare feet and a fluttering of skirts. Another dominion ran after her.

He stayed where he was.

"What are you waiting for?"

Canada turned on his heel to see a pale nation looming over him with a goblet of wine or mead. His jacket was also blue.

"I'm sorry…?" Canada bit his lip and tried not to make eye contact, feeling small and bashful. The other man grabbed his chin between two fingers and forced Canada to look at him.

His eyes were startling and bright. Red…

Canada was entranced.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he grunted and studied Canada.

"I'm sorry, sir. I will."

"Damn right you will. And my name is Gilbert."

"I am the Dominion of Canada."

"That's nice." He rolled his eyes. "Who are you really?"

"But I am…"

"Yes, yes, I know. But I _am_ Königreich Preußen; my _name_ is Gilbert. See?"

And Canada did see. He was not asking for his station, or title, or purpose. He was asking who he was.

It was sort of refreshing.

"Ah. Matthew. My name is Matthew," he whispered.

Gilbert smiled for the first time then and let go of his chin. He ruffled his hair.

"Hello, Matthew. Now, what are you waiting for?"

"Uhm, nothing, sir."

"Bullshit. Boys don't just stand around unless they're waiting for something. Why aren't you dancing?"

Canada, no, Matthew looked out across the ballroom. It hummed with the keening of violins and the rustle of petticoats. It was very intimidating.

"I do not dance."

"Don't or can't?"

"Excuse me?"

Gilbert snorted.

"You _don't _dance or you _can't_ dance?"

Matthew thought about it. He had never even tried to dance, at least not these strange Europeans steps, so he did not know whether or not he could dance.

He twisted the hem of his jacket between fidgeting fingers.

"Uhm, I cannot dance, I suppose."

Gilbert inspected him.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with you, so we're just going to fix that." He swallowed the last of his wine and threw the goblet behind him, not caring where it shattered. He scooped up Matthew and threw him over his shoulder.

"Ah! No! Stop!"

"No."

"Please!"

"No." He put him down in the centre of the ballroom just as another song started up and Matthew froze. The other nations were watching them. He tried to turn and run but Gilbert grabbed him and held his hand and shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's dance."

"I do not… I cannot…"

"Put your hand on my hip."

Matthew just stared at him with too wide eyes.

"I…"

"Here." And his hand was on his hip. "Now step forward and I'll follow your lead."

Matthew wanted to point out that Gilbert was dancing the part of the woman but he thought better of it and stepped forward instead. Gilbert stepped back with him. And then they stepped to the side. And back again.

He was waltzing!

Matthew tried to contain his excitement but it was impossible. He was smiling and laughing and Gilbert smiled back. It was a softer expression than Matthew ever expected to see on him.

It was all going so well... And then the music changed and the dance changed too.

He stumbled.

Gilbert chuckled and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Tell you what… Stand on my feet."

"Are you sure...?"

"Yes. It's my turn to lead."

Matthew raised an eyebrow but Gilbert just smiled. He stepped onto his feet and gasped when Gilbert took off across the ballroom and brought Matthew along for the ride.

He started giggling, feeling like the child he looked like. Gilbert darted between the other nations and twirled Matthew through the crowd. Matthew looked into his eyes, smitten, and decided that he would marry Gilbert when he grew up.

After all, it only seemed proper.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I've been locked out of my account for some strange reason but it let me back on this week. So I was not ignoring you, I promise! I posted a couple of little drabbles on my tumblr account in the meantime but anything substantial ends up on here. I'll send out replies soon.  
_

_So here's another piece for Inspired. I enjoyed writing this one. Because Matthew was so sweet in his youth. _

_And dancing with small children at parties is a time honoured tradition. I did it as a child, and now I take them for a spin as an adult. Oh, and little kids always decide to marry people on a whim, even when they do not understand how it works. I've had many premature proposals myself._


	45. Make A Memory

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Make A Memory' by Bon Jovi._

**Make A Memory**

"Hello again."

Matthew and Gilbert sat across from each other, staring. Awkward and unsure. It was in their body language, in the curve of their lips and the clenching of their fists. Worried, but wanting. Yearning.

"So…"

"It's been awhile," Gilbert interrupted. Matthew flinched and lowered his gaze to his lap.

"And whose fault is that, do you think?" He mumbled, bitter, and it was Gilbert's turn to flinch. It was true… He had been the one to panic, to cut and run. He had been the one to avoid Matthew; to pretend that he was _invisible_ or that he had never existed in the first place. Gilbert tangled his fingers in his hair and pushed it back from his forehead in frustration.

"Ah. Yes. Mine, I guess."

Matthew looked up at him through his eyelashes, studying him with a small smile. He seemed mollified by the acknowledgment.

"… Thank you," Matthew whispered, "for admitting that."

Gilbert smiled back, a little strained and embarrassed. Matthew had been his first relationship, his first _real_ relationship, since coming out of the closet and it had all seemed too real. Too meaningful, and intense, and important. And so he had run, as hard and as fast as he could in the opposite direction, and broken both of their hearts in the process.

But sitting across from him now, Gilbert knew that he was still in love with him. He was still in love with the quiet student who had stuttered and dropped his books the first time he had talked to him; the one who pushed his blonde curls behind his ears when he was nervous; the one who had blushed when Gilbert kissed him the first time, and every time after that.

Gilbert was still in love with Matthew.

"… It's good to see you smile."

Matthew raised his head a little higher, a little defiantly.

"I promised myself I wouldn't cry. Not for you. Not anymore."

Gilbert bit his lip and nodded.

"I'm glad."

He wanted to apologize but he did not think that Matthew would accept it. He seemed past that now, past the anger and betrayal. He just seemed resigned, and curious.

And maybe, just maybe, the tiniest bit hopeful.

"What do you want…?" Matthew started but Gilbert held up his hand.

"You. I want you." He reached into his wallet and pulled out a worn photograph of the two of them in front of the high school bleachers, holding hands and laughing. He put it on the tabletop between them. "I want this. Again."

Matthew stared at the photograph, surprised. Or perhaps shocked.

"Gilbert…"

"I want to try again. With you. Please."

He sucked in a breath.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

"I'm sure that I don't care. I…" Gilbert swallowed and forced out the words that were so difficult to say aloud. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I miss you."

He squirmed in his seat, nervous and uncomfortable and more than a little self conscious. He needed Matthew to understand that he was different now, that he had grown up. That he would not hurt him this time.

Matthew worried his lip and tucked his hair behind his ear, considering him. Gilbert almost melted at the gesture.

He had missed him so much.

"I'm not…" Matthew closed his eyes, tight, and reached for his keys. "I should go…"

His hand hovered over the keys, hesitant and undecided, as if his closed eyes were the only thing keeping him together.

Gilbert took a chance and covered his hand with his own. His eyes flew open and his resolve to say 'no' crumbled into so many pieces. Gilbert searched those eyes, watching the emotions flicker across his face; fear and longing and, oh, _desire_.

He tightened his grasp on his hand, threading their fingers together with the promise to hold on this time. To never let go. Never again

"You should stay," he said, determined.

And so Matthew did.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I am not dead (just job hunting) and I wanted to drop by with something, anything. I am sending all my love to everyone who stops by to check up on me. You are my solace, make no mistake._

_I imagine that Matthew has that exact same photograph in his own wallet. Perhaps that was why he was surprised. _

_P.S. I sometimes post drabbles on tumblr. when I am not on this website (and still under p0ck3tf0x)._


	46. Inner Ninja

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Inner Ninja' by Classified. Duh. _

**Inner Ninja**

Matthew walked down the street lost in his imagination. He was holding an epic adventure in one hand and dragging a red wagon stacked with other library books behind him. His left shoe was untied and his collared shirt was untucked, which would scandalise his mother, but his attention was elsewhere.

He was seven years old and captivated by stories of pirates on the high seas; of worn maps and dangerous islands and mermaids. Of counting paces and cursed treasure.

His brother always told him that his head was in the clouds but Matthew could not bear to keep his feet on the ground. In real life, he was just a kid with too much time on his hands; when he was reading, he was a brave adventurer. The heroes of his stories all found happy endings. He was not so convinced that happy endings existed in real life.

He was a bit morose for a seven year old.

His blonde curls fluttered in the wind and tried to come between him and his library book but he shook his head to put them back into place. The main character had been stranded without food or water and Matthew refused to miss even one second of the action.

"Aha!" Someone screamed, jumping from the bushes suddenly and waving a big stick around. Matthew yelped and stumbled back into his wagon. Books scattered across the sidewalk. He flinched and covered his head with both hands. His feet stuck up in the air at odd angles.

"Ack! W-w-w-what do you want?!"

The figure paused and pulled down the hood of his black sweater. His colourless hair floated around him and stuck up at odd angles. There was a bit of dirt smudged across his cheekbone.

He propped the stick on his shoulder and grinned at Matthew, cocky and sure of himself.

He was a year or two older, Matthew thought, and he did not look like any of the other children in the neighbourhood. He was pale, with red eyes, and it would have been unsettling if his smile were not so infectious.

As it was, though, Matthew was not laughing.

"I'm a ninja," the older child proclaimed. He gestured to his dark clothes as if it were obvious. He puffed out his chest as he said it.

Matthew sat up in the wagon and frowned.

"No you're not," he said, pushing his eyeglasses up his nose with a finger, "I've read all about ninjas and you're not sneaky enough. And your weapon is all wrong."

He expected the other child to lash out at him for being a 'know-it-all' but he just cackled.

"You! I like you! You're weird." He bent down and started picking up the library books he had knocked over. "My name's Gilbert. We just moved in down the street. It's the house with the red mailbox. I think the attic is haunted."

Matthew tilted his head to the side and studied his newest neighbour. He was odd, but interesting.

"My name is Matthew. I live in the house with the tire swing."

"Oh! That's _awesome_. You should invite me over sometime."

He handed Matthew a pile of books.

"… Okay."

"Wicked. But why do you have so many books?"

Matthew clamoured out of the wagon and set the books where he had been sitting, straightening the stack as he did so.

"I like to read."

"Really? What are you reading?"

Matthew blushed and looked down, biting his lip. The other children usually made fun of him and called him names for reading. They said he was not 'normal'; that he was a 'weirdo' and 'Teacher's Pet'. They called him a 'nerd'.

Gilbert called him none of these things… It was nice.

"I'm reading about pirates," he mumbled. Gilbert heard him anyway.

"Wow. You must be really smart, then." Matthew blushed further. "Do you want to play pretend with me?"

Matthew looked up at him through the fringe of his hair.

"Is that what you were doing? You were playing pretend?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not _actually_ a ninja. But it's fun to pretend, right?"

Matthew thought of his reading, and pining, and dreaming of adventure. He knew what Gilbert was talking about. Sometimes he just wanted to be someone else for a little while.

"Yes, alright."

"Great! You'll be a pirate and I'll be a ninja!"

"… But pirates and ninjas never…"

"Ah, but this is pretend, remember?" Gilbert waggled his finger, cutting off his tangent on historical inaccuracies. "We can do whatever we want. We can _be_ whoever we want."

"Oh," Matthew blinked. "Okay then."

And it was that simple.

Gilbert dropped his stick into the wagon and took the handle from Matthew, heading towards the park and laughing. Matthew followed him, grinning ear to ear, and felt like this was the start of something amazing.

"We're just going to be the _best_ of friends," Gilbert said, confident. "I can tell, you know."

And so they were. It really was that simple.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was so much fun to write, you have no idea. I love writing children. (And yes, childhood logic is that strange. And yes, children do make friends that easily. Children can be cruel but they can also be surprisingly accepting.)_

_I just posted a (complete) piece here and on tumblr. called 'Crossroads', so please feel free to read that one too if your Saturday is just as barren as mine. _


	47. Stutter

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Stutter' by Marianas Trench._

**Stutter**

Canada opened the front door and blinked in surprise.

Prussia stood on the porch, soaking wet and staring intently at his own shoes. He looked lost. Canada took in his dishevelled appearance and smiled in understanding. He stepped aside and let Prussia into his house.

Prussia raised a hand in greeting, caught somewhere between embarrassment and alarm. His cheeks were pink.

"Gilbert? What are you doing here?"

Prussia scratched the back of his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"I… Uhm, I have no idea." And it was true. He had no idea why he had teleported to another country, travelling between dimensions as only a nation could, just to see his best friend. He had been anxious and upset and it had just seemed right at the time.

Now that he was there, though, he could not remember what had upset him in the first place. All of his tension had evaporated the second Canada opened the door.

Canada handed him a towel from the linen closet. It was pouring outside and he was drenched. He had lingered on the porch for almost an hour before working up the courage to ring the doorbell.

He dried his face and tried to give the towel back. Canada just laughed. He swooped in and smothered him with it, roughly towelling his dripping hair.

"No idea, eh? Alright then; come in. I have beer."

Canada led the way to the den and Prussia trailed after him, wondering why Canada was not asking more questions.

He tossed Prussia a beer and sank into the worn, tartan sofa next to the fireplace. He gestured for Prussia to do the same.

"You're okay with this?"

Canada opened his beer on the edge of the coffee table and took a sip.

"Okay with what?"

"This," Prussia pointed at himself. "Me. Showing up at one in the morning on a Tuesday."

Canada chuckled warmly.

"Gilbert, how long have we known each other? I've come to expect the unexpected when it comes to you."

Prussia studied him, looking for some hidden resentment or worse, but no, Canada seemed content. He opened his own beer.

"… Were you sleeping?" He asked, curious.

"Nah. Kumajirou stole all of my left socks."

Prussia frowned.

"… And you couldn't sleep because of that…?"

"No. I _have _to know where he hid them," Canada pouted. He said it as if the answer were obvious. "It'll bother me otherwise."

Prussia threw his head back and laughed and laughed, forgetting the last of his uneasiness. Canada always had that affect on him. He seemed quiet and unobtrusive at first but he was wonderfully strange and ridiculous and so much fun to be around.

He was always willing to lend a hand or to listen; he worked hard and played hard and everything in between. He laughed easily and almost never cried, even when he had every excuse. He could be kind and gentle in one breath and aggressive in the next.

He was awesome and Prussia loved him for…

Prussia abruptly stopped laughing.

What the hell was that?! He 'loved' him?! … Did he?

Prussia thought about it.

Oh… Oh, he _did_. He was in love with Canada. He was in love...

And he had been for a long time.

Fuck.

"Gilbert? Gilbert?! What's wrong? You're bright red." Canada leaned in close and tested his temperature with the back of his hand. Prussia flinched.

"I'm F-f-f-fine!"

"You don't _look _fine…" Canada cocked his head to the side and scooted even closer. Prussia tried to back up but there was nowhere else to go. The sofa was only so big.

"I… I should leave."

"Nonsense," Canada scoffed. "I think you might be coming down with something. How _long_ were you standing out in the rain?"

Prussia swallowed. Hard.

"I really, really think I should go."

"And I said 'no'. Stay the night."

Prussia watched his lips move, realizing for the first time just how sculpted and perfect they were.

"… I think that's a bad idea…" Prussia whispered, licking his own lips and swaying a little closer. It felt like the world was spinning.

"I just…" Canada trailed off. "Are you sure you're not…?"

And then Prussia kissed him.

It was a little sloppy at first; their noses bumped and their teeth clicked, but they found a rhythm soon enough. Canada mewled and clutched at his shoulders, kissing back for all he was worth. Prussia ran his hands under his sweater and over his chest.

Their half finished beer bottles sat forgotten on the coffee table.

Prussia pulled back, reluctantly, and looked at Canada. He was flushed and breathing hard. He was staring at Prussia with a mix of confusion, happiness, and unadulterated lust.

That was…

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. Damn! Prussia blinked and realized what he had done. He had changed the rules. No, worse, he had changed the whole fucking game.

"I s-s-s-should go home," Prussia scrambled backwards and made for the door, feeling flustered and foolish. He should not have done that... He might have ruined everything! Oh, he was _such_ an idiot!

Canada lunged forward and grabbed Prussia's wrist before he could go too far, pulling him into his lap. Canada held his face between his hands and searched his eyes, looking for something.

He sighed when he found it, whatever 'it' was.

"It's too late to go," Canada said. "Stay."

"B-b-b-but…"

Canada touched their noses together. He kissed him gently.

"Stay," he said again. "Please."

So Prussia did.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Oh, Prussia… Why are you so delightfully awkward and thickheaded? Seriously. Also, it bothers me when my socks are missing. I can't sleep at night. I mean, where do they go?_


	48. Chapel of Love

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Chapel of Love' by The Dixie Cups. It's an older song._

**Chapel of Love**

Canada straightened his tie and fidgeted with his cufflinks. He tried to tame his wild, windswept curls but it was a lost cause.

He watched their guests arrive in twos and threes, a mixture of Nations and humans from all walks of life. They waved to him as they wandered up the steps and into the church.

The chapel was a worn affair, covered in bluebells and ivy and peeling paint. It was a simple church; white with plain arched windows, and it could only seat fifty or so. The church did not mean much to Canada but it meant something to Prussia and that was what mattered. Canada had asked Russia permission to use it, to get married in his country, and he had let them. … For the low, low price of a kiss.

Prussia was still a bit sore about the whole thing; he had punched Russia in the face, but the wedding went on as planned.

"Hey! You! Mr. Matthew Beilschmidt!"

Canada smiled and turned to find his brother with an arm around Liechtenstein. He cocked his head to the side, studying the odd couple and wondering how Switzerland was handling it... He was probably not taking it well.

"How do you know he's not going to take my name?" Canada laughed, shaking his brother's hand and nodding to Liechtenstein. She blushed prettily.

"'Gilbert Williams', huh?" America sounded it out, tasting the consonants. "No. I don't think so. It doesn't sound right. You should take his name."

"We haven't decided on anything yet."

"You don't have to," America pointed out, "I just decided for you!"

Canada frowned.

"Gee, thanks…" He sighed, sarcasm dripping from the word. America just cackled and saluted him. He led Liechtenstein into the chapel, whispering in her ear.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she glanced backwards at Canada before flushing another shade darker. Canada groaned and wondered what his brother had told her.

They disappeared inside.

"Is your brother being a twat? Again?"

Canada smiled at England, dressed in the strangest combination of sweater vest and corduroy trousers, and held out his hand. He shook it.

"He usually is," Canada shrugged. England huffed and his breath tangled in the fringe of his hair.

"I don't know where I went wrong with him. I really don't," England bit the inside of his cheek. "I mean, you turned out all right."

"Ah," France said, drifting up the steps of the chapel and threading their arms together, "yes, except that he's getting married to our _dearest_ Gilbert, remember?"

England elbowed him in the ribs.

"I was trying to forget that bit. Wanker."

"Then their wedding seems like a strange place to forget, no?"

Canada covered his mouth to hide his amusement as his parental figures bickered and argued and clamoured over each other. It was just like old times... A little too much like old times, perhaps.

"Please, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Yes, but if only he had better taste in men…" France sighed.

"Well, sure…"

Prussia came up the steps behind them and raised an eyebrow.

"Uhm, guys, I'm _right_ here. Do you mind?"

England and France jumped in surprise. England lowered his eyes and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, squirming under his gaze. France just grinned, clapping Prussia on the shoulder and making a lewd gesture.

They hurried inside to find their seats.

Prussia snorted and draped himself over his fiancée to watch the last of their guests trickle in.

"So, whose bright idea was it to invite our family?" Prussia asked, fiddling with one of his blonde curls; tugging it straight and letting it bounce back into place.

Canada twisted to kiss him on the cheek.

"I thought it was yours…"

"No way," Prussia shook his head and pouted, "Elizabeta just spent half an hour lecturing me on propriety, and telling me that she'd _break_ me in _half_ if I hurt you. And then Lovino said the same thing. And then Ludwig… Isn't anyone looking out for _me_?!"

"Nope." Canada chuckled and kissed him again as an apology.

Prussia smiled at him indulgently.

"So, what 'words of wisdom' did you get, then?"

"Let's see…" Canada tapped his chin with his index finger. "That I have 'terrible' taste in men and that I should take your last name."

"Ooh! I like that one! 'Matthew Beilschmidt'…"

"You wish."

They were alone on the steps now; everyone else was inside the little chapel, waiting for them. Prussia turned Canada around in his arms and kissed him on the lips. Canada wound his fingers into his dress uniform and pulled him closer.

The church bells rang.

"Do you take this man…" Prussia whispered, reciting their vows against the shell of his ear. Canada laughed.

"Oh, yes, let's see… I've taken him in the shower, and on the counter, and against the wall…"

Prussia bit his ear lightly and Canada pulled him even closer.

"That's not what I meant, you absolute pervert." He thought about it. "And you forgot the bed... And the tool shed. And that one time in the snow bank."

"And to think I used to be_ so _pure before I met you…"

"Bullshit."

They stared into each other's eyes. Prussia saw his salvation reflected in Canada's eyes and Canada saw the answer to his prayers. They already belonged to each other; this was just the last step on their journey as a couple. Marriage. One last vow.

Canada kissed him again and again as the church bells sang.

"Do you think we should go inside? Maybe?"

"If we have to," Prussia peppered kisses along the column of his neck. Canada arched into his ministrations. "But I'd rather 'take' you here."

Canada chuckled and hitched a leg up around his waist.

"Later," he whispered, "I promise."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

… _Oh, you guys are so terribly inappropriate. But I have always wondered at the phrasing of 'Do you take this man…'. I mean, does the priest want the truth? Because that's a loaded question right there._

_I've been to a couple of weddings like this. Very casual. The chapel here used to be part of the Prussian territories, when it still existed, but is now under Russian domain. Hence asking permission. I'm not sure why this particular chapel is so important to Prussia but he used to be Teutonic Knight, so maybe it is from that part of his life._

… _Also, I think Prussia's family would expect him to be the one to screw it up. So… Death threats!_


	49. My Side Of The Story

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'My Side of the Story' by J.T. Hodges._

**My Side of the Story**

Matthew fell to his knees and traced his fingers over the gravestone. His jacket was open and trailing in the wind. The snow soaked through his jeans, colouring them two shades darker than before.

His lips were chapped and pink. His eyes were swollen.

Snowflakes danced around him, around _them_, and tangled in his blonde curls. His hands were raw and bleeding, unprotected from the elements.

Matthew choked on a sob and bent forward to rest his forehead against the gravestone. He clutched at it with fumbling fingers.

"I miss you," he cried. The wind howled and swept the snowflakes into a spiral. The cold burnt his hands but he refused to let go. "I can't do this. I can't do this on my own."

His tears sparkled on the gravestone, catching on the inscription.

_GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT_

_NEVER FORGOTTEN_

Gilbert had promised that they would be together forever, that Matthew would never have to brave the big, bad world alone. He had promised to take care of him. To look after him...

But Gilbert had left him. He had died and abandoned him.

And Matthew was fucking terrified.

"Take me with you," he pleaded. "Don't leave me."

Gilbert had been the only good thing in his life; he had been the only thing worth living for. He had been his saving grace. Matthew did not have a family to lean on; Gilbert was it. He did not have any other friends.

Gilbert had been the centre of his universe… And, somehow, he still was.

Matthew tightened his grip on the gravestone. He felt the rough edges bite into his hands and found he did not care. His world was painted in shades of grey and white; he liked the splash of red.

His blood dripped down the stone.

"Save me."

But he knew that Gilbert was gone, that he was alone. He felt hollow and shattered. Spent.

Gilbert had been his other half. He _was_ his other half. All of their memories were of each other; all of their plans for the future had involved the two of them. Now Matthew had been cut loose and he had no idea what to do with himself.

… He was going to have to figure out how to stand on his own two feet…

He was going to have to _try_.

Matthew hiccupped and dug his fingers into the gravestone, revelling in the pain. He bit his lip. He tried to stand up, tried to push off and stand on his own.

And promptly collapsed under the weight of his own broken heart.

"Please come and get me. Please! I'll be good." His voice cracked. "Just… Just don't leave me alone like this!"

In the end, this was supposed to be _their _story; their life together, their adventures and laughter, their devotion to one another. It was supposed to be a fairytale. A love story.

And now it was just his side of the story...

And he did not think he was strong enough to tell it. He was not strong enough to be on his own. To be alone.

Matthew curled around the gravestone, red with his blood and white with the snow, and cried and cried and cried.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uh… Who would like something a little happier next time? _


	50. The Love Club

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'The Love Club' by Lorde._

**The Love Club**

Gilbert sat on top of his desk and nudged one of his 'friends' with the toe of his left boot. He twisted an unlit cigarette between two fingers before tucking it behind his ear. He laughed, and it was an unpleasant sound.

He was surrounded by a crowd of students jostling for his attention, like children reaching for their mothers, and it was pathetic. He kicked another person, a little harder, but no one spoke up.

He could get away with murder, if he wanted.

Gilbert turned his attention to the window. It was raining.

Someone ran their fingers over the hem of his dark jeans, worshipping him, and he took it as his due. He was popular. That was the whole point.

He had wanted attention in his junior year and a bit of fast talking and whoring had propelled him to the top of the social ladder. Now he was the centre of the fucking universe and he _despised_ it.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

Well, almost everything.

Matthew walked past the classroom, clutching a text book to his chest. Gilbert met his eyes and swallowed the all-too-familiar guilt burning inside him.

They had been best friends, childhood sweethearts. Had been. Gilbert had dropped Matthew in his search for popularity; he had stepped on him just to get that little bit further. He had wrecked Matthew, chewed him up and spit him out, for something that did not even make him happy.

He was an idiot.

Matthew paused and stared at him. His eyes were deep, deeper than the sea, and sad. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve. That was one of the reasons Gilbert had to ditch him; he was too soft, too gentle. There was no way he could have made the arduous climb to popularity. He actually _cared _about other people.

That, and… Well, if anyone knew that he was bisexual, that he kissed boys, well, that would be it. Matthew was homosexual, and out. And people noticed.

He just would have dragged Gilbert down. He would have exposed him.

"Keep moving, fag!" One of the students cried, crumpling up a piece of paper and throwing it at Matthew. It bounced off his shoulder.

The rest of the crowd tittered and threw insults that hurt more than a simple piece of paper ever could; the slurs cut and bruised his soul and Matthew bled innocence.

"No one wants you here, dumbass!"

"Shouldn't you be bent over the teacher's desk, queer?"

"You're disgusting."

But Matthew did not blink; he did not even pay attention to the other students. He stared at Gilbert.

Twelve years. They had been best friends for twelve years. They had been lovers for three.

Matthew knew his darkest secrets and greatest fears. Matthew had held his hand when his mother left. He had cleaned his wounds the first time his father hit him, and every time after that.

He had not laughed when Gilbert wet the bed at age eight. He had not laughed when he did it again at age ten.

They had done everything together. Gilbert had taught Matthew how to ride a bicycle; Matthew had shown him how to bake cookies. Matthew learnt to carry bandages for his many bruises; Gilbert had learnt to carry tissues to wipe his tears. He had learnt how to read his silences, and the difference between companionable and awkward silences.

They had snuck out after bedtime. They had climbed up onto the roof.

They had done things they were not supposed to do.

And when they finally made love, it was beautiful and embarrassing, with too much tongue and not enough lubrication. It had been messy and hilarious; it had been wonderful and breathtaking.

Matthew had been the centre of his universe for years, just as he was now for strangers who did not really matter. Popularity was lonelier than he had thought.

Matthew just looked at him as the students continued to shout obscenities, as if he were the only person in the whole world.

Then he sighed and walked away.

Gilbert felt his heart wrench and throb. The crowd around him hissed and jeered, waving at the blonde and raising their middle fingers in salute.

"Good riddance!"

"Cocksucker."

"Sit on this!"

Gilbert watched him disappear, feeling empty. Popularity had not solved his problems; it had not magically given his life purpose. The drugs and alcohol had not erased his father's abuse. The easy girls had not somehow replaced his mother, and he did not want them anyway.

He wanted Matthew. He wanted to _make love_, not have sex.

Gilbert stood up on the desk; his decision made. He kicked one of the students in the head, the one who had thrown the piece of paper at Matthew.

"Dude," the student growled, clutching his head. "What was that for?"

"You're an asshole," Gilbert shrugged and took a step down unto the seat, "and I'm done with this."

"Fuck you. Done with what?"

"This," Gilbert gestured to the group, "All of this. You."

"So, what? You're just leaving?"

"Yes. And you're all idiots to stay. I've had enough of this."

The crowd sniggered and squirmed. Some of the students seemed confused, or ashamed. Others just seemed angry.

"Where are you going to go?"

Gilbert pointed in the direction Matthew had gone. He took another step down onto the floor.

"I'm going to go find Matthew and apologize. And then I'm going to screw his brains out."

The classroom was silent as he moved to the door, the rest of the crowd too shocked by his admission to say anything. Someone found their voice just as he reached the doorframe.

"So you're a fucking queer too?" He made a gagging sound. "I should've known. Fine then, take it up the ass and see if we care, but don't come back, pussy!"

Gilbert smiled wryly at them, wondering how he could ever have thought they were worth Matthew. They would never hold a candle to him. They were pathetic.

"Gladly," Gilbert promised, closing the door behind him and hurrying down the corridor. He hoped that he was not too late to catch Matthew.

He slammed into the front door and stumbled down the steps. The rain was cold. It pasted his pale hair to his forehead and dripped down the back of his neck.

He swept his gaze over the lawn and found Matthew standing next to the flagpole. His eyes were turned to the heavens and he was soaked from head to toe. He was still clutching the text book and the pages were warped and water damaged; it would never be the same.

Gilbert sucked in a breath and made his way over to Matthew. He shook off his leather jacket and settled it on his shoulders. Matthew kept his eyes trained on the sky.

"I'm a dick, and I'm sorry," he said. "Can you forgive me?"

Matthew glanced at him.

"That depends. What are you sorry for?"

"For abandoning you. For leaving you. For trying to forget you."

Matthew hummed.

"Will you miss it? Will you miss being popular?"

"Not as much as I missed you."

Matthew smiled at him then and kissed him on the cheek. As always, he was too kind and caring and forgiving. Gilbert swallowed the lump in his throat.

Someone whistled and howled at them. They ignored it.

"Welcome back, Gilbert."

"… Thank you."

"But you owe me, eh?"

"Anything."

Matthew laughed, soft and gentle. He threaded their fingers together, holding his right hand, and gave Gilbert his sodden text book.

"Well then, you can start by carrying my books. C'mon," Matthew tightened his grasp on his hand and Gilbert squeezed back, happily taking the text book in his other hand. "Let's go home."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Oh em gee. This is chapter fifty. (And that rhymed…) Not only that, but we've passed the five hundred mark for reviews. I want to thank everyone who has contributed to that number, and to everyone who has encouraged me on this journey. It means the world to me. I know I cannot always write back but I want you to know that I appreciate the reviews and the well wishes. I love you guys._

_By the way, please feel to resubmit any requests you have for songs if I have not touched them yet. My cat ate my list. (I wish that was just an excuse…) Please include song title and artist. Except for you, Odisdera-kun! I know that you've asked twice and the song is on my playlist. I haven't forgotten, I swear!_

_This was a little sad, though not as sad as the last chapter, but it was meaningful. Important. I was lucky in high school in that half of my friends were gay or bisexual and the other half were straight. (I, myself, identify as pansexual, in case you were wondering.) We never had any problems. But even at that same high school, I knew people who could be this cruel. A sometimes friend of mine was teased mercilessly, usually by groups of young males with nothing better to do. They went out of their way to be cruel and it always surprised me._

_Remember, you do not have to be liked by everybody as long as there is somebody who likes you just the way you are._

_Also, Matthew is going to have Gilbert happily wrapped around his little finger for quite some time._


	51. An Architect's Dream

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'An Architect's Dream' by Kate Bush._

**An Architect's Dream**

Canada bent over the canvas tucked in the cradle of his crossed legs. The paintbrush was smooth in his hand and flecked with old paint. He caressed the canvas with the bristles and watched a flourish of blue dance across the painting.

Prussia was tangled in the blankets and pillows of their bed, sleeping. He was laid open.

The sunlight sneaking through the curtains caught on his bare chest and left leg. It highlighted the pink of his nipples and the purple bruises of their passionate sex. It swept over the fine silver hairs covering his privates.

He was beautiful in his exhaustion. Honest and exposed. Naked.

Canada smiled to himself and added another stroke, making sure to follow the contours of his subject. He was an accomplished artist, after centuries of practice, but he wondered if he would ever be able to _truly_ capture Prussia in any medium.

Oil or ink or watercolour, it was impossible. Prussia was meant to be free; he could not be captured, in any sense of the word.

But that did not stop Canada from trying.

He smudged the paint with his fingertips. He wanted to soften the edges. He wanted to showcase the vulnerability of the scene.

"What are you doing?" Prussia yawned, opening his eyes and struggling to untangle himself. Canada pushed him back down with one hand from where he sat at the foot of the bed.

"Go back to sleep, Gilbert," Canada whispered, rinsing his paintbrush and choosing a new, lighter shade of blue. "I'm painting."

Prussia blinked, confused, and ruffled his hair. It stuck up in all directions and danced in the sunlight. Canada pursed his lips and resisted the urge to run his fingers through it. He focused on the canvas in front of him.

"Are… Are you painting _me_?"

Canada looked up.

"Not yet."

He leaned forward and touched the paintbrush to Prussia's nose. The pale blue stood out against his pale complexion.

Prussia made a face and rubbed at his nose. He smeared the paint onto his cheek.

"I didn't mean it _literally_," he huffed. Canada chuckled and set his canvas to the side. He crawled over Prussia and straddled his hips, just as naked and just as excited to see the other nation. He swept the paintbrush over his chest and circled one of his nipples.

Prussia sighed and arched his back.

"Then you should have been more specific."

Canada settled the paintbrush in the dip of his bellybutton before trailing lower with enthusiasm. He marked his territory.

"That's quite a lot of…" Prussia's breath hitched. "_'Artistic talent' _you have there."

"But of course."

Canada turned his attention to his shoulders and painted whorls and drifting lines along his collarbone. Canada pressed down with his hips and with his hands and claimed what was his.

Prussia gasped.

He smudged paint along his sides with trembling fingers. He traced his hipbones. The pale blue paint climbed up his own thighs and anywhere else that Prussia was touching him.

It was overwhelming. It was perfect.

Prussia reached for the paintbrush and pried it from his hands. He tossed it over his head and it landed on the canvas with a soft sound. Canada found that he did not mind the newest stroke, the latest stain; their most brilliant mistake. It completed the painting.

Prussia kissed up his arm, leaving a trail of painted blue kisses in his wake.

Canada looked down at him, rocking his hips in time with the other nation, and admired his greatest masterpiece.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This is not terribly long but I really like it. It's very… Sensual, I suppose? I like the atmosphere. I just really, really like it. I tried to keep the sexual aspect of it vague without sacrificing the intimacy of their relationship._

_I've posted a couple of pieces influenced by Kate Bush, but I love her, so sue me. This song is very sensuous and demonstrative. And yet, somehow gentle._


	52. I Wanna Go

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'I Wanna Go' by Yuna._

**I Wanna Go**

Gilbert pressed his hands into his pockets and watched the café on the other side of the street. An art student sat at one of the small, round tables with a sketchbook in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

He bit his lip and glanced at Gilbert before returning his attention to his work. He knew that Gilbert was watching him, and why not? Gilbert had been standing on this particular corner at this exact time for five weeks. He came to watch the student, and the student knew.

But he still showed up at the same place, at the same time everyday, and sat where Gilbert could see him. It was like some sort of long distance love affair; Gilbert did not know his name and the student did not know why he was there but it worked and they did it anyway.

* * *

Gilbert leaned against the side of the building, under the awning and away from the rain. He thought about going somewhere else, somewhere warm, but his feet refused to move.

The art student was sitting inside the café today, looking out the window at Gilbert. His blonde curls were a mess and his clothes were damp but at least he was warm. He touched the windowpane with his fingertips and stared at Gilbert.

Gilbert thought about storming across the street and walking into the café. He thought about sweeping the student into his arms and kissing him.

He thought about it, sure.

But he stayed where he was.

* * *

Gilbert examined his fingernails and tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach. The art student was staring at him more intently than usual. The pencil in his hand flew across the piece of paper in front of him.

He was wearing a knitted hat in orange and blue, with a dreadful pompom perched precariously on top. It looked homemade. His sweater was just as offensive and his jeans were tattered and torn. His shoes were untied and stained.

And Gilbert thought he was lovely.

* * *

Gilbert checked his watch and frowned. It was 1500h. He should have been here by now.

It was strange. He felt like he had been stood up, even though they had never spoken.

Gilbert had first laid eyes on the art student three months ago. He had been walking home after a bad day, stomping his feet and cursing. He worked as a lawyer and his latest client was an asshole of the first degree.

He had spent the afternoon arguing semantics on the behalf of someone he would string up himself, given half a chance. He loathed defending the indefensible but he was not a partner yet and he went where the law firm sent him.

He had kicked a can and turned the corner and there he was. The art student was hunched over his sketchbook with a smudge of graphite at the corner of his mouth.

It had been love at first sight.

And everyday after Gilbert had stood on that same corner, waiting the one ray of sunlight in his otherwise stressful existence. Eventually, the student noticed his admirer, and instead of disappearing, he made sure to sit where Gilbert could see him.

And where he could see Gilbert.

But he was late today. The café was bustling and crowded but it could have been barren as far as Gilbert was concerned. It was meaningless without the blonde.

He felt rejected.

Suddenly, someone tapped him on the shoulder with two sharp fingers. He turned on his heel to find the student closer than he had ever been before. He was wearing another frightful combination of second hand knitwear and ragged jeans. Gilbert opened his mouth to say something but the student beat him to it.

"I think I'm in love with you," he said bluntly. Gilbert blinked.

"What the f… I mean, excuse me?"

"I'm in love with you," he said again. He shrugged and handed his sketchbook to Gilbert.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow and opened the sketchbook.

And forgot how to breathe.

The sketchbook was filled with drawings of him leaning against buildings, biting his lips, and smoking. The detail was incredible; the student had caught the double piercings in his left ear and scar along his collarbone. He had studied the tendons in his hands and the buttons of his expensive suits. There were sketches of his hair either ruffled or soaking wet; there were drawings of his eyes and his lips and his flushed cheeks.

The entire sketchbook was dedicated to him.

Gilbert looked at the student in awe.

"I saw you watching me," the blonde whispered. "My name is Matthew."

"… This is all… These are all of me," Gilbert gestured to the sketchbook, at a loss.

"Yes."

"But I thought… _Why_?"

"Because it was love at first sight, of course." Matthew reached up and tangled his fingers in the pale hair at the nape of Gilbert's neck. He pulled him down and kissed him, softly and with the slightest hint of hesitation. Gilbert wrapped his hands around his waist on instinct, dropping the sketchbook, and held Matthew against him. He was warm. He smelt like modeling clay and papier-mâché. He was a little shorter and a lot younger and just plain perfect.

When they broke apart, Gilbert traced his bruised lips with his fingertips in wonder. Matthew chuckled and leaned into him.

"… My name is Gilbert."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

… _And I have a problem. So does Gilbert. Please stop stalking Matthew, alright? It's unbecoming. _

_I see an age difference of ten to twenty years between them in this. When I was writing it, I pictured Matthew as eighteen or nineteen and Gilbert as thirty five. I've written other pieces with similar age gaps. Also, why is it always so surprising when someone wants us as much as we want them? Humans are weird.  
_


	53. Dance Yrself Clean

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Dance Yrself Clean' by LCD Soundsystem (although I listened to the cover by MS MR a lot when I was writing it). This song was requested by Odisdera-kun. I doubt she expected… Uh, this._

**Dance Yrself Clean**

Matthew leaned against the bar and studied his beer. It was a dark ale, room temperature, and not nearly strong enough but it was comforting in his hand. Cigarette smoke tangled in his hair and caught on the ceiling of the establishment.

The bar was derelict and falling apart; stained with blood and vomit and the tears of divorced men. The washrooms were a mess of cracked tiles and the splashed semen of hurried sex. It was an absolute wreck.

The bartender kept reaching under the counter to stroke the rifle there and he looked more than willing to use it.

But it suited his mood. Matthew liked the atmosphere of grumbling men and used up prostitutes. He liked the suspicious scratches leading from the bar to the exit. It was like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

"Well, well… Who do we have here?" Another man sat down next to him at the bar and tugged on one of his curls. Matthew recognized him. Wilbert, was it? No, Gilbert… His name was Gilbert.

And he was a bit of an asshole.

"Piss off, Gilbert," he sighed without much malice. Gilbert laughed and waved at the bartender.

"Oh, so you remember me, then? I must have made quite the impression."

Matthew snorted.

"Was that before or after you fucked me into the wall?"

Gilbert grinned and slipped ten dollars to the bartender. He brought two more beers and Gilbert slid one of the emerald bottles to Matthew.

He took it.

It was true that he had, well, _fucked_ the other man on several occasions. There was no other word for it. It had not been romantic or gentle; it had been brutal and desperate and messy. Dirty. But that was the whole reason Matthew came to this bar.

Sometimes he just needed a good fuck, and Gilbert was _certainly_ good at it.

"Before, I'm sure. You game?"

"Not yet."

Music crackled through old speakers, drifting through the cigarette smoke and warbled, hacking coughs. Matthew took a sip of his beer.

"I can wait," Gilbert shrugged.

His stomach twisted in anticipation and he tried to ignore it. Gilbert's voice was rough and it spoke to parts of Matthew that he would rather not examine. The deepest, darkest parts of his soul. The filthiest parts.

A fight broke out behind them but neither of them turned around. It was nothing to get worked up over; it happened every night.

"Oh, you can, can you?" Matthew asked, tightening his grip on the beer bottle.

"For a piece of that ass? You bet."

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"You're a jerk. You know that, right?"

"Guilty as charged. But it looks good on me."

And Matthew had to smile. At least Gilbert was honest with himself; it was more than Matthew could claim. Outside of this bar, he was sweet and quiet. He was a doormat and everyone took advantage of his kind nature.

Here, he strove to be the opposite. The pathetic bit was that his true temperament was somewhere between the two extremes.

"True."

Gilbert grinned and swivelled on his barstool to run his foot over Matthew's shin; up and down and up and a little higher. He pressed his boot against the front of his jeans, straightening his ankle, and Matthew gasped. He thrust against his boot.

"Are you ready yet?" Gilbert asked, feigning innocence and failing miserably.

"A bit…" His breath hitched. "A bit forward tonight, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Gilbert pressed a little harder and smirked into his beer.

"What, exactly, do you want from me?"

"The same thing that you want; a moment of freedom."

"Is that all?"

"That," Gilbert leaned forward and whispered against his ear, "and a good lay. I brought lube."

"How thoughtful. I'll be sure to use it on you…" Matthew said wryly. Gilbert laughed. His hands trailed down to the buttons on his jeans and traced the stamped contours.

The other patrons of the bar averted their eyes and ignored them. It was an unspoken rule. It was considered 'impolite' to watch one man seduce another, just as it was considered vulgar to watch them fuck in the washroom.

It was nothing to get worked up over; it happened every night.

Matthew finished his beer and slammed it down on the counter. He reached for Gilbert and clutched the front of his leather jacket with shaking hands. He crushed their lips together and bit down. Gilbert opened his mouth and Matthew slipped his tongue inside. He licked his sharp canines and tangled their tongues together, reaching as far and as deep into the other man as he could without bending him over.

When he pulled away, Gilbert was flushed and lost in thought.

"Wow," he panted against his neck.

"Washroom," Matthew growled, feeling wild and unlike himself. He pinched this inside of his thigh with a twist of his fingers. "_Now_."

Gilbert handed him the small bottle of lubrication without further provocation and stood up.

"You're the boss."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uh… Fuck buddies who aren't really friends but probably should be? I've been to bars like this. You keep your head down unless you're looking for a good time, and even then. Dirty, backwater bars. (Just one of the many reasons I love humans. Not even kidding.) I assume that Matthew and Gilbert meet like this more often than they would like to admit, and that's okay. Sometimes you just want to be someone else for a little while… Or be more yourself._

_I actually really enjoy writing darker, seedier pieces. Aha ha ha… Ha. (Sorry, Odisdera-kun!)_

_Are you guys tired of these updates yet? I think I've posted three chapters in the past twenty four hours._


	54. Dust Bowl Dance

_This song was inspired by the song 'Dust Bowl Dance' by Mumford and Sons. Odisdera-kun also requested this one but I doubt this is what she was thinking either. I'm just messing with her at this point… I'm a real fillintheblank. Whoops!  
_

**Dust Bowl Dance**

Matthew walked through the ghost town with bare feet. His long hair was discoloured with soot and ash, braided with feathers and glass beads. It was impossible to tell what colour it used to be.

He wore bone carvings and leather knots around his neck and wrists; his ears were pierced with porcupine spines. He wore metal chewing tobacco lids, rolled up into cones, on his ankles. The charms caught the light and jingled with each step.

His name was not Matthew, not really, but it was the only name he remembered. He was all alone now, his father long gone, and the English men refused to accept his language or traditions. They christened him 'Matthew' instead, and so he was Matthew.

His toes dug into the dirt with each step; his feet were blackened and cracked.

Matthew ran his fingers over the derelict houses. This had been their land, once upon a time, but the English and French and Scottish had stolen it. They had used it up and abandoned it once it was barren.

As far as they were concerned, the places they walked were meant to be owned, subjugated, and sold. They refused to believe in the concept of a spirit. They refused to believe in life, and in living, and in stepping lightly. They refused to be a part of something; not when they could tear it apart instead.

It was sad.

Matthew closed his eyes and leaned into the wind. He listened to the leaves on the few trees left and the chittering of scavengers jumping from shadow to shadow. He could also hear a large predator circling the settlement but he was not worried. Not yet, anyway.

"What are you doing here? _Everyone_ left."

Matthew opened his eyes to see a spirit painted in white; a vision of some sort. He had seen spirits before, so he just shrugged.

"Is there somewhere else I should be?"

He did not bother asking why they were speaking the same language, or why the spirit was so pale. Language was fluid to spirits, a non issue, and Matthew had seen a white bison when his father was still alive.

The white bison were sacred and, therefore, so was the apparition. It seemed obvious.

"I suppose not," the spirit agreed. It, or he, for it was certainly male in shape, looked over the ghost town with exasperation and regret.

"My name is Matthew," he supplied, "and what should I call you?"

The spirit blinked.

"You can call me… Gilbert."

And Matthew did not question his choice in name either.

"Do you live here, Gilbert?"

"I did. Before." Gilbert bent down and pressed his cheek against the fractured earth and dust. He was pale and naked and somehow managed to fit in even as he stood out.

"Me too," Matthew said. "Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure. I've never known anything else, really."

"… You could come with me, then."

Gilbert looked up at him. His eyes were the colour of the sweet raspberries he picked along the trails in the midsummer heat; brilliant and searching and profound.

"And where are _you_ going?"

"I don't know, but I'd rather not go alone." Matthew approached the spirit and held out his hand. "There's nothing left for us here."

Gilbert studied him a moment longer before sighing.

"No. Not anymore."

Gilbert placed his hand in Matthew's and let himself be pulled up. Matthew was surprised at how solid the spirit seemed beneath his fingertips. He held his hand tightly, tracing his knuckles with rough calluses, and started walking north.

They never looked back…

After all, there was nothing to see. Not anymore.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This song made me think of relocation and land tax and working the fields to ruin. I decided to focus on the aboriginal perspective. _

_The charms mentioned here, made from chewing tobacco lids, are common to several aboriginal groups and their Pow Wow regalia. I am most familiar with the Ojibwe and Cree traditions, and these charms are used on the 'jingle dress'. If you have never been to a Pow Wow, I would recommend it. They're very neat. (I'm lucky that where I live is more in touch with aboriginal culture than most places. Manitoba has a very high aboriginal population.)_

_There are several sacred white animals in a wide range of aboriginal cultures, such as the white raven, the ghost of the white deer, the spirit bear, and the white bison. I have seen a white bison at our local zoo (his name is Blizzard, of course)._


	55. White Blank Page

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'White Blank Page' by Mumford and Sons, the same band as last time. And it was requested by the same person. … I'm still messing with her…_

**White Blank Page**

Prussia sat on the edge of the mattress and watched Canada breathe in and out, in and out. In and out. His bare chest rose with each whispering sigh and his blonde eyelashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks.

He was not supposed to be there, in the haven of the other nation's bedroom, but that had never stopped him before. The guest bedroom was down the corridor and much too far away. He could not stand to be that far from Canada.

Prussia reached forward and brushed the tangled curls from his forehead. Canada snuffled and shifted the slightest bit closer to Prussia.

It was still too far.

He pitched a leg over him and straddled Canada, trying not to jostle him but not really caring if he did. He studied his face. He traced his collarbones.

Canada was beautiful, of course; he always had been. But that did not explain this level of obsession.

And it was _obsession_, make no mistake; it was fascination, and addiction, and passion. It was more than love, or devotion. It was dirtier and darker than infatuation. _Obsession_.

Prussia sat back, keeping his weight on his knees and off of the other nation. He ghosted his hands over his chest and his pale, pink nipples. Canada whimpered and arched into his fingertips but he did not wake up.

Prussia had made sure of _that_.

He circled his bellybutton and the faint treasure trail there. He fingered the waist of his chequered red and white pajama pants.

Canada leaned into him, gasping and mumbling and biting his lips. His mind might be elsewhere but his body was certainly present and accounted for. Prussia wanted to believe that he was dreaming about him.

He scraped his fingernails over his hipbones and shivered when Canada moaned.

He knew it was wrong. He knew that he was abusing Canada and his perfect, fragile concept of trust. They were best friends and Canada had made it quite clear that he did not want anything else from him but… He could not help it; he _would_ not help it. He refused to be denied.

So he took advantage of his kindness. He took advantage of their friendship; of drinking games and sleeping over.

Prussia should have been ashamed of his part in all of this, but he was just resigned. He would take what he could get, and however he could get it. He was practical, if nothing else, and he _needed_ Canada like he had never needed anyone before.

It was disturbing and frightening and somehow so exhilarating.

Prussia threaded their fingers together and held Canada's hands over his head. He kissed him gently.

He thought about going further, of taking more; of taking _everything_, but something stopped him. As always. Prussia looked down at the sweet, angelic nation trembling beneath him and his breath hitched.

He wanted him, all of him, but not like this. Never like this.

Prussia miserably slid off of him and laid down beside him. He wrapped his arms around Canada and it was chaste and innocent in spite of their previous position. He nuzzled his neck and choked on a sob when Canada returned his embrace.

He wanted him but he could not have him.

In the morning, Canada would tease him about sneaking into his bed again, never suspecting, and Prussia would laugh it off even though his heart was breaking.

He snuggled against him and waited impatiently for dawn. He listened to him breathe.

In and out, in and out.

In and out.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Uhm… Yes. That was depressing. _

_I'm assuming that Prussia slipped him something or gave Canada a little too much to drink, just to be sure. Or perhaps Canada just trusts him enough to fall asleep in his presence. Now, I do not condone this, of course, but obsession is as interesting as it is frightening. I'm not sure if any of you have ever been stalked (I hope not) but I have been, many times. I just seem to attract them. And trust me when I say that it is a strange and remarkable phenomenon. Otherwise normal people just sort of… Break._

_Also, I apparently need to get laid, if the last couple of chapters are anything to go by… Unresolved sexual tension, anyone? _


	56. Lollipop

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Lollipop' by Mika._

**Lollipop**

Matthew set the implements on the aluminium cart, from smallest to largest. The needles were sealed in plastic; the vacuums and tubes were coloured and marked; blue elastics decorated the handle in twos and threes.

A fellow phlebotomist walked past him in a white coat, wheeling her own cart. She nodded and Matthew returned the gesture with a tilt of his chin.

He finished with his cart and started down the corridor. He was working in the cancer care and intensive care units this morning, according to his paperwork. It was a bit depressing, but the nurses were nice and the doctors actually listened to his opinion; the staff trusted him to know what he was talking about, at least when it came to venipuncture and the results therein.

Matthew turned a corner, then another. He took the elevator to the sixth floor.

He raised a hand as he passed the nurse's station and headed to Room Nine. Unfortunately, the 'sixth floor; ninth room' translated as a big '69' stamped on the wooden door. Matthew covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

He pushed the door open and walked in.

"Uhm, sixty nine? Sixty nine? Uh…" He scrambled for his paperwork and a proper name for his first patient. He always felt strange calling a patient by their room number, but this time it was worse than usual.

"… Are you propositioning me?"

Matthew looked up from the folders in his hands. The patient was pale, almost ashen, and his voice was rough and weak. He was propped up with pillows and hooked to a dozen machines. He was sick, that much was obvious, but he was still handsome and his eyes twinkled.

He smirked and a little dimple appeared.

"Are you, uh," Matthew turned back to his paperwork, "are you Mr. Gilbert Beilschmidt?"

The patient shrugged and sat up a little straighter.

"I was when I woke up this morning, and let me tell you, _that_ in itself was a surprise. I thought I was going to die last night; there was vomit _everywhere_, man, but here I am. It's a fucking miracle." He sounded bitter and cynical.

Matthew approached Gilbert and asked for his hand. He compared the information on the hospital bracelet to his paperwork and was relieved when it matched up; right room number, right patient. Check.

"I'm just going to take some blood, okay?"

Gilbert stuck out his tongue.

"But I _hate_ needles…"

Matthew pulled his cart closer and picked a winged needle, specifically a 'Butterfly Needle'. It would give him more control if Gilbert flinched, and besides, the veins in his arm looked thin and abused.

"I'll be gentle," he reassured. Gilbert snorted and muttered under his breath.

"I'm sure you say that to all the girls…"

Matthew flushed. For someone hooked up to a catheter, Gilbert had a surprising amount of 'piss and vinegar'.

He tapped the crook of his arm, looking for a vein, and he tied an elastic in place when he thought he found one. The elastic snapped with the motion and Gilbert cringed.

Matthew battled the urge to pat the grown man on his head and shush him. He really _was _terrified of needles, and it was adorable. Matthew wanted to comfort him, somehow, but there was not much he could do in the fifteen minutes they had together.

He slipped on a pair of gloves and opened a sterilization wipe. He washed Gilbert's arm and tried to ignore his nervous pants. Gilbert shifted under his hands.

"Gilbert, look at me."

Gilbert glanced up. He was tense, poised between fight and flight and unable to choose either. He was panicking.

"What?" He growled, more agitated than irritated.

"I promise you, this won't hurt a bit; not even a pinch. Just relax, okay?"

Gilbert grinned, but it wobbled.

"This whole conversation has been one innuendo after another. I have no idea how you're keeping a straight face."

Matthew laughed at that and allowed himself a small, unprofessional smile.

"Years of practice." And it was true. His whole career had revolved around 'sticking' people; 'poking' them and whispering soothing words in their ears. He snuck into their rooms and left fifteen minutes later; he almost never saw the same patient twice. Phlebotomy was the One Night Stand of the medical community.

Gilbert let his smile settle and the dimple deepened. Matthew decided that he liked that dimple.

"So…" Gilbert leered. "Do I get something to suck on, then?"

Matthew choked and his blush intensified. He was used to a bit of gentle flirting, here and there, but this was downright blatant. Room '69', indeed.

"_Excuse _me?!"

Gilbert leaned in closer, so that their noses were almost touching.

"You know," his breath washed over him, "like a _lollipop_ or something. To distract me."

Matthew stared at him. His eyes were a deep wine red, like merlot, from this close. His hair was white. Matthew was not sure whether he wanted to shake his troublemaking patient or kiss him. He _was_ sure that they would have been sworn enemies or the best of friends under different circumstances.

"A lollipop, eh? To distract you from what?" It was his turn to smirk as he pulled back and held up three vials of blood and a used needle.

Gilbert gaped. He looked between his arm and the vials.

"When the _fuck_ did you manage that?!"

"When you were hitting on me. I told you it wouldn't hurt." Matthew pressed a small piece of gauze against the puncture. "Here, hold this."

Gilbert did as he was told, pushing the gauze tight against the miniscule wound. There was not much chance of bleeding, not with a winged needle, but it gave Gilbert something to do with his hands. He still looked shocked.

Matthew labelled the tubes and attached the appropriate paperwork. He sealed it all together and tucked the bundle into the top drawer of his cart.

He wandered back and examined Gilbert's arm with delicate fingers. No bleeding, just as he thought. Matthew smiled and pulled a sticking plaster from his pocket. He pressed it to his arm.

It was pink with daisies. Gilbert cocked an eyebrow and his smile widened. He reached into his pocket again.

"Is that a lollipop in your pocket or are you just 'happy' to see me?"

"You wish."

Matthew handed him a lime sucker with a yellow ribbon tied around the baton. He always kept a couple of lollipops in his pockets for such occasions, although he tended to hand them out to terrified children and not adults.

"Oh." Gilbert blinked. "It really _is_ a lollipop…"

Gilbert reached out for the treat with both hands, more childish than any child Matthew had ever met. He unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth with a hum of satisfaction.

Matthew gave into temptation and patted him on his head, ruffling his hair. Gilbert leaned into his touch.

He turned to leave but Gilbert pulled on his hospital scrubs.

"… Yes?"

"Uh, visiting hours are from noon 'til eight." Gilbert flushed, and the splash of colour looked good against his sallow cheeks. "You know, in case you wanted to, uh… Visit… Me."

Matthew grinned. He really was adorable.

"Okay. I get off in a couple of hours."

"… Yes, I'm sure you will…" Gilbert grinned back. His lips stretched around the lollipop, teasing and taunting and sure of himself despite the heart monitor tapping out a nervous rhythm.

Matthew just rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him with a smile. The stamped numbers on the door stood out in sharp relief. '69' indeed…

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

"_Hold still", "it'll be over in a second", and "just breathe through it"… I'm sorry, guys, but I can never keep a straight face at the hospital. It's overly sexual. Ridiculously so. I've spent more time than most at the hospital and I was there this afternoon for further tests. (It's nothing serious: don't panic.) The terms and procedures used here come from a combination of experience and research. Also, my aunt is a phlebotomist and waxes on about veins all the time._

_Venipuncture: the process of withdrawing minute amounts of blood for the purpose of medical testing or analysis._

_Phlebotomist: someone trained to draw blood from a person or animal. _

_A Winged Needle: or a 'Butterfly Needle' is smaller than most needles (a short point attached to a flexible tube) and easier to thread through veins. It is easier to manoeuvre when someone has small or elastic veins, or is particularly agitated._

_Also, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I seem to put these characters in an odd assortment of situations and roles. Whoops!_


	57. Dark Roman Wine

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Dark Roman Wine' by Snow Patrol. It was requested by biologyofpencils on my tumblr. account._

**Dark Roman Wine**

Gilbert pushed Matthew onto the blanket and followed him down. He chased his lips.

Matthew gasped and threaded his fingers through his hair. He clutched and grasped and arched into him. He met his lips with his own. He hummed and slipped his tongue over the contours, tasting him. Gilbert opened his mouth and Matthew tried to climb inside.

The headlights of the stolen car painted the trees around them in black and white. They rolled over each other and into the grooves that the tires had carved into the dirt. They ran their fingers over the woollen blanket between each touch and caress.

Matthew mouthed secrets and promises he could not keep against the column of his neck. He licked along his collarbone, and although Gilbert straddled his waist and tried to pin his hands over his head, it was obvious that Matthew was in charge.

Gilbert sighed.

They would come for him in the morning. He was running out of time, but there was nowhere else he would rather spend his last moments. The was no one else he would rather spend it with.

Matthew pulled Gilbert's shirt over his head and sat up enough to pull off his own sweater. He patterned his fingers against his chest and traced his scars as the wind whispered through the trees. Gilbert shivered and leaned into his fingertips.

Matthew pressed a kiss over his heart and the wet mark burnt in the breeze.

Gilbert looked up. The skies were a mess of dark clouds and bare patches. He could see the stars there, as if someone had peeled back the storm just for him.

He reached up as if he could catch a star but it was impossible. Matthew reached up to twine their hands together instead.

Gilbert turned back to Matthew and knew that his pupils were blown wide with lust. Matthew smiled, soft and sweet and utterly sincere. It warmed him to his toes, even as the temperature continued to drop.

He held their clasped hands against his cheek. He leaned into the warmth there.

Matthew ran his free hand up his clothed thighs to the button of his jeans. He pulled the zipper down.

Gilbert bucked and rocked into his touch. The car sputtered and idled as he found his release. Matthew walked him to the edge of pleasure and pushed him over.

He watched him fall and made no move to follow him. Not yet. He would rather watch Gilbert come apart at the seams.

Gilbert threw back his head and panted into the cold air. He watched the stars he could not touch. His stomach was flushed and splashed white. Matthew licked him clean and turned them over so that he was now on top.

Matthew pulled off his jeans entirely and kissed down his pale legs. Each kiss echoed the unspoken words between them; 'I'll miss you', 'I love you', 'please don't leave me'. He wanted to stay, but he could not. Matthew wanted him to stay, but he knew better. The world could be as cruel as it was beautiful; it could be as bitter as it was sweet, and this was just one of those moments.

Gilbert guided Matthew back up his body and covered his lips with his own. He tucked one of his blonde curls behind his ear and tried to _show_ him that everything would be alright, even though they both knew better.

Matthew blinked back tears and Gilbert brushed them away with the pad of his thumb. He kissed both of his trembling eyelids.

Matthew laughed and it was a broken, hiccupping sound. Gilbert tried to kiss that away too.

Gilbert had never loved anyone like this. Matthew made him a better man even as he made him jealous and selfish. Matthew made him considerate and caring and tender; he made him dark and possessive and desperate. It was true love, or as close as Gilbert would ever get.

The kiss deepened and this time Matthew rocked above him. Gilbert was oversensitive but he bit back his moans and let Matthew reach his own orgasm. It was their last night together for a very, very long time and Gilbert would give him anything he wanted. He would give him everything.

The headlights flickered and danced over them as they made love. The blankets tangled around their bare feet.

Gilbert scratched designs on his hips. Matthew groaned.

He could not have him forever, but he could have him until dawn, and that was enough.

It had to be enough.

It had to be…

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I wanted to write something quiet and intimate and aching for this song. No words. This is the result. I kind of like it… (And no, I have no idea who is coming for Gilbert in the morning. Use your imagination.)_


	58. The Bird and The Worm

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'The Bird and the Worm' by Owl City. This song was also requested by biologyofpencils on my tumblr. account. _

**The Bird and The Worm**

Prussia reached up and plucked a perfect crimson apple from the branch above him. He tossed it down to Canada, who caught it in his stretched out sweater. He grinned up at him and Prussia melted.

They already had more apples than either of them could eat but that was not the point.

Prussia climbed another branch and found another apple. He threw it and Canada jumped to catch it. It landed with a soft _'smack'_ and tumbled into place.

The sun hung low in the afternoon and painted the cornfields gold and cream. The breeze danced through the corn and through Canada's curls. He pushed his blonde tresses behind his ear with one hand and clutched their makeshift basket with his other. Kumajirou and Gilbird crouched in his shadow and watched them, curious.

Prussia leaned against the tree and admired Canada. The countryside suited him. His eyes reflected the skies and his hair tangled in the late summer crops of sunflowers and mustard and wheat. A light dusting of freckles decorated his nose and shoulders.

They were standing in the centre of a sprawling field where the farmer had been nice enough to plough and plant around a small clutch of apple trees. Canada said the trees were almost fifty year old and still flowering against all odds. When Prussia asked how he knew that, Canada just tapped the side of his nose and smiled. It was a secret, then.

He tossed down one last apple and scrambled down the tree. He pecked Canada on the cheek when his feet hit the dirt and Canada blushed. They had been friends for a hundred years, and lovers for thirty, but Canada still flushed whenever Prussia kissed him. It was cute.

Prussia pulled off his cotton shirt in one fluid movement and stole half of the apples from Canada. He tied them up and attached the bundle to a long stick. He propped the bindle on his shoulder and slipped his free arm around Canada's waist; Gilbird fluttered up to his perch on top of his head.

They walked through the rows of corn side by side and the maize tickled and swept their elbows. Kumajirou ambled behind them, grumbling. Canada hitched his makeshift basket a little higher, pulling the hem of his sweater up and exposing more of his stomach.

"I think we picked too many…" Canada ventured with a small smile. Prussia tightened his arm around the other nation.

"There's no such thing as too many apples." He stole one from Canada and bit into it with a _'crunch'_. The worm squirming in the core looked just as surprised to see Prussia as he was to see it. "Oh, gross."

Canada chortled.

"Still think so?" He plucked the worm from the apple and held it in front of Prussia. He tried to glare at the intruding insect but only managed to cross his eyes.

The other nation handed the worm to Gilbird, who cheeped and clucked happily at the gift. The little yellow bird settled in the pale nest of Prussia's hair with the worm.

Prussia just grinned at Canada, shrugged, and went right back to eating his apple. Canada snorted.

"Definitely."

The field opened up onto an abandoned dirt road, just as they had known it would. It was brighter out in the open and the sunlight caught in his curls. He was beautiful.

Prussia pulled him closer and kissed him on the lips. The apples between them jostled and squeaked and Canada clenched the hem of his sweater with shaking fingers. He blushed and it put the red apples to shame.

When he stepped back, a thin string of saliva trailed between them. They breathed the same air for a second and stood in each other's personal space.

Prussia tapped their foreheads together. He willed time to stand still, if only for a moment. He wanted it to last forever…

But that was selfish, and unnecessary; they had been picking apples for years. They would do it again; they always did. Next year, and the year after, and the year after that. They would come back…

They always did. They always would.

Kumajirou wound around their sneakers, demanding their attention; Gilbird whistled a tuneless song as he finished his treat. The wind whipped down the dirt road. It smudged filth and dust against their bare skin and tousled their hair.

Prussia brushed their noses together and Canada giggled. He tightened his grip on his sweater and the apples.

"Definitely," Prussia whispered again, nuzzling the other nation. He sighed against his lips. "_Definitely_."

"_Definitely_," Canada echoed.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Where I live in the breadbasket of Canada, sunflowers, mustard, and wheat colour the countryside. Especially in late summer and early fall. Travelling the world, which is beautiful and breathtaking, allowed me to really appreciate the simple patchwork quilt of the prairies. It opened my eyes to the most fantastic thunderstorms and sunsets you will ever see. _

_The average apple tree (depending on the type) can live over a hundred years and is usually fertile for thirty to forty of those years. I assume that Canada knows the age of this particular tree because it is planted on his land. I think that most nations can probably tell such things but that New World nations might be better at it (and maybe Ukraine too). I think that both America and Canada would be particularly good at this._

_And yes, 'bindle' is the proper term for a cloth sack attached to a stick. It is often seen as a symbol of the hobo or vagabond subculture._


	59. Land of the Silver Birch

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Land of the Silver Birch' by Michael Mitchell, although the song itself is a traditional Canadian song that is sometimes used to keep time while canoeing. The lyrics seem to be adapted from a poem._

_This song was requested by coahoma-cat on my tumblr account. She is very nice to me, although I do not always say 'thank you', and I owed her a treat. Cheers!_

**Land of the Silver Birch**

The paddle cut into the river, propelling the birchbark canoe forward to constant beat of 'one, one, two; one, one, two'. The water was silent and still and it reflected the sunlight in shimmering silver and white. It was peaceful.

Canada sat at the stern of the craft and paddled with a serene, centred expression. He seemed truly at home on the water.

Prussia watched the world pass from the bow of the canoe, clutching the sinew edges. The riverbanks were bare in patches and he could see animal tracks pressed into the mire. Canada pointed them out from time to time and identified the animal; beaver, coyote, lynx. He greeted every animal like an old friend.

Perhaps they were.

Prussia had offered to paddle but Canada brushed him off, partly because he wanted Prussia to pay attention to the passing landscape and partly because he enjoyed the rhythm of it. 'One, one, two. One, one, two'. Dip, dip, and swing. He paddled to a song that only he could hear.

Prussia twisted in his seat to look at Canada. He had tied his blonde curls tight to the nape of his neck but a couple of strands escaped to frame his face. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were pink. His eyes were calm and focused on the horizon.

He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Prussia watched the muscles in his arms work as he shifted the paddle from one side of the canoe to the other.

Prussia tightened his hold on the boat and marvelled at the texture. He was almost positive that Canada had built it himself. He knew that Canada still spent a lot of time with his native people, especially the elders, and he knew that he still practiced their traditional skills and arts.

"Where are we going?"

Canada blinked a couple of times as if waking from a dream before his eyes focused on Prussia. He grinned.

"North."

Prussia rolled his eyes and glanced up. A skein of geese flew over them, travelling in the opposite direction in a deafening chorus of feathered delight.

"I thought we _were _north…" He mumbled. Canada splashed water on him with a gentle 'smack' of his paddle.

"_Further_ north, asshole."

"Oh."

Canada snorted and turned back to paddling.

Prussia leaned forward on the bow of the canoe and dragged his fingers through the water. It was freezing but somehow comforting. He could see fish just below the surface, scattering in the wake of the boat.

And it really _was_ peaceful. He could see why Canada disappeared into the wilderness for weeks at a time, often without provisions. It was an important part of him and he cradled it at the absolute centre of his essence; he was part of the wilderness, just as it was a part of him. He was a hunter and a predator but he understood the circle of life. He respected it.

The wilderness suited him. Just as Prussia had been shaped for war and conquest, Canada had been moulded around the mountains and rivers and prairies. He had walked with the animals and hunted alongside his people. He had cried over colonization and industrialization and pollution.

Canada was more in touch with his land, even now, than most of the nations could ever hope to be. He had jumped, danced, and swam over every inch of it; bare foot and beautiful and free.

"Look," Canada whispered. Prussia sat up a little straighter.

He was pointing at a moose drinking at the edge of the river, a mere fifteen feet from their canoe. Prussia opened his mouth in surprise. It was huge, and obviously male with large velvet covered antlers, but unexpectedly quiet.

It sank into the water and watched them. Canada dragged his paddle through the sediment, slowing down in front of the animal and clouding the river with sand and dirt.

"What are you doing?" Prussia hissed in trepidation. He had never seen a moose in person before but he had heard some stories, and if it wanted to crush them, it could. Easily.

Canada shushed him and held out his hand to the moose. He curled his fingers into an intricate gesture that Prussia did not recognize. He said something in a language Prussia did not recognize, but it sounded ancient, with flat vowels and trilling consonants.

The moose cocked its head to the side and studied him.

And then it stepped closer.

Prussia tried to push backwards and perhaps leap over the side of the boat but Matthew pressed his foot against his leg and held him in place. The moose came up the canoe and knocked its nose against Canada's hand. It was large enough that even completely submerged, its chest and back were dry.

Canada laughed, and the sound echoed over the water.

"Hello," he said softly, petting the beast. The moose nuzzled against his hand and it was strange and intimate and fantastic. "Come here, Gilbert."

Prussia shook his head so hard that he shook the boat.

"No," he choked, "I'm, ah, good. Over here. _Way_ over here…"

Canada sighed.

"Shut up and come here."

Prussia bit his lip and crept forward. It was not as if he had anywhere else to go, and if Canada wanted, he could just tip over the whole craft and then Prussia would be _in_ the water… _With_ the moose. And that just would not do.

Canada chuckled and clasped his wrist. He guided his hand to the moose and let go.

Prussia stopped breathing. The moose was matted and filthy and the smell was indescribable, but there was something majestic about it. It watched him with large brown eyes, curious and expectant.

He touched the animal with shaking fingers.

"Nice moose, good moose," he chanted, "don't eat me. Please don't eat me."

Canada leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He ran a soothing hand over the small of his back.

"There, you see?"

The moose threw its head back with a low grunt and swam back to the riverbank. It climbed over the reeds and shivered; unkempt coat dripping, and lumbered into a thatch of evergreens and birch trees.

Prussia stared at his hand, the one that had just pet a fucking _moose_, and then at Canada.

"Okay, that was awesome," he admitted reluctantly. Canada beamed. "But if you ever, _ever_ do that to me again, I'll kill you."

Canada laughed and pressed his lips to his own, soft and sweet and not quite apologetic.

"Well, then. This is going to be a long trip, isn't it?"

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was fun. I always like the chance to explore Canadian culture and how it might have shaped Canada as a character. (That said, I now have drumming songs running through my mind…) I love my country and I'm lucky that I've been able to touch so much of it. Canada might not have the architectural wonders of the old world but our wildlife is amazing. _

_A moose (in this case, an adult bull moose) can stand seven feet at the shoulder and weigh anywhere from eight hundred to fifteen hundred pounds. That's big. If you have ever seen a moose in person, they're intimidating. The closest I've ever been to a wild moose was about twelve feet in British Columbia. It was terrifying and magnificent. (Please avoid being that close to a moose if you can help it. It's dangerous.)_

_I like to think that Canada remembers most of his history before colonization, stretching back to the settlements that died, and that he remembers the long lost languages and cultures therein. I assume that the hand gesture he used here is some sort of ancient charm for calming or communicating with animals.  
_


	60. This River Is Wild

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'This River is Wild' by The Killers. It was requested by canin3 on my tumblr account._

**This River is Wild**

Gilbert opened his window and looked down. Damn. It was a long, long way down if he fell…

But that had never stopped him before.

He grinned and tossed his leg over the side, straddling the windowsill. The garden was dark and silent beneath him but that did not mean his parents were asleep. His mother would tear him apart if she caught him sneaking out, but that was half of the fun; walking the line, tempting fate. He was a rebel without a cause and that made him reckless.

His smile widened as he climbed down the rotting latticework and ivy planted beneath his window like some sort of open invitation. His bare feet hit the ground with a soft '_whumpf_' and he crouched for a moment, listening, before darting across the lawn.

The streets were quiet as he wound from one lamppost to the next, laughing. There was a sense of freedom in the air and he liked the taste of it.

Leaves and broken glass crunched beneath his feet and he relished the bite of it; he enjoyed the scrape of the pavement against his skin. The ache meant that he was alive, truly alive, as he could never be at home or at his local high school. 'Conformity', 'tradition', 'institution'… The words sat heavy on his tongue.

He was a river, rushing wild through the mountains, and if someone built a dam in his way, well, he would just carve a path around it. No matter how long it took.

Gilbert jumped onto a low stone wall and walked with his arms out. He swayed back and forth.

This town was strangling him. It was smothering his creativity and cramping his style. He loved his parents, and he liked his friends well enough, but he could not wait to leave them behind. He wanted to put this town in his rearview mirror and never look back; he wanted to drive to the nearest _city_ and find himself. He wanted to find his place.

There were over three thousand people in this forgotten town but he had never felt more alone. He wanted to find one person, just one person, on the same wave length as him. Was that so much to ask?

Gilbert swung around the corner and up the steps to the local playground.

And then he stopped.

Someone was standing on top of the playstructure with their eyes closed and their arms held wide open. They teetered on the precipice, at least four metres in the air, and rocked in the wind.

Gilbert recognised him, of course. There was only one school system in the town and everyone went through it. His name was… Matthew? Yes, that sounded right.

He was a year or two younger than Gilbert and he never said more than a couple of words at a time. Gilbert had always thought that he was introverted, maybe, or perhaps just a little eccentric. Odd, in any case.

But he looked just as lost and lonely as Gilbert at the moment.

"That's going to hurt like a bitch if you fall, you know," Gilbert called, cupping his hands over his mouth to augment his voice. Matthew flinched at the sudden intrusion but refused to move. He cracked open an eye and studied him.

"I'm not going to fall; I'm going to jump." He supplied. It was the most Gilbert had ever heard him say at once.

He judged the distance again.

"That's not going to kill you. You might want to try the bridge."

Matthew smiled, and it was sweet and soft.

"I'm not trying to kill myself either. 'Sides, the bridge is under construction."

"Oh yeah…" Gilbert blinked. He was not sure if he had ever seen Matthew smile before either. It was nice smile, with an inside joke tucked in the corner of his mouth, like he knew a secret.

His blonde curls highlighted his cheekbones and the damp ends licked his ears. His pupils were blown wide in the moonlight. He was wearing an oversized sweater and stitched cotton pants and his feet were as bare as his own. Gilbert grinned.

"You're barefoot," Gilbert pointed out. He liked that neither of them had bothered with shoes; he liked that they matched. Matthew looked down at him and cocked an eyebrow in bemusement.

"You're one to talk."

They stared at each other.

"So what are you doing here?" Gilbert scrunched up his nose and barrelled on. "I mean 'here' here, not in the grand cosmic sense."

Matthew shrugged.

"I couldn't sleep. So I didn't." Matthew was straightforward and Gilbert liked that too. It made perfect sense to him. Matthew seemed composed and serene and that stillness washed over Gilbert, calming some of his panic and unrest from earlier.

"Ah. Okay." Gilbert reached for a cold metal bar. "Can I come up?"

"… Are you going to push me off?" Matthew asked but Gilbert waved it off and chuckled.

"I wasn't planning on it… But that doesn't mean much, honestly," he admitted.

Matthew thought about it. He nodded nonetheless.

"Alright then."

Gilbert clamoured up, knocking his knees against the painted blue bars, and stood next to Matthew. He gasped.

The playstructure sat in the middle of town square and he could see the streetlights and the shuttered stores and the statue at the centre of it all. He could see the darkened row houses and their gardens; he could see the plastic pool and toys in one yard and the flickering pale in another window that meant someone was watching infomercials.

It made a difference, somehow, standing on top of the playstructure; it let him rise above the expectations and judgements of their peers, literally and figuratively, if only for a moment.

"Wow…"

"Mmhmm."

"No, I mean it. Wow." Gilbert tore his gaze from the headlights in the distance, someone just passing through, and turned back to Matthew. His presence was surprisingly soothing and Gilbert basked in the strange phenomenon; it was a shame they had never talked before now. "Are you still going to jump?"

Their eyes met.

"Of course."

"_Why?_" He asked even though he meant 'Why would you give _this_ up? This feeling of being above it all?' and not 'Why bother jumping?' Matthew gestured over the park, and the town, with an absentminded hand.

"Because I can."

They were quiet for a couple of minutes, watching the world turn beneath them. Gilbert could linger there forever, relishing the silence, but he thought that he finally understood Matthew's urge to jump. It turned out that being _able_ to jump, being the one to make that choice… Well, there was a sense of freedom in that; a fleeting moment of control in their otherwise uncontrollable lives.

Gilbert held out his hand, palm up. Matthew stared at him.

"I want to jump too," he said. Matthew blinked.

"Okay…"

"I want to jump with _you_," Gilbert clarified, in case he had missed it. Matthew blinked again, twice, before blushing from his neck to the tip of his ears.

It was cute.

Gilbert wiggled his fingers and Matthew flushed another shade darker but he pressed his hand into Gilbert's palm. Gilbert wound their fingers together. He knew it was more intimate but this was an intimate moment and it deserved an intimate gesture.

He beamed.

"Ready…"

"Set…"

"Go!"

They jumped together, side by side; shouting and whooping. Matthew's curls floated around his head like a halo and Gilbert held his hand a little tighter. It was a long, long way down.

But that was just how they liked it.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This chapter is similar to chapter four and chapter eleven. I have always found that the most intimate and thought provoking moments come after midnight, and often at the local playstructure and swings. At least, that's where I always end up._

_I imagine that Gilbert and Matthew were both struggling with acceptance in a town where their ideals and dreams went against the grain. They'll still leave in a couple of years, probably in the same rusting car, but hopefully their friendship will make the interim a little easier. Also, Gilbert tends to ramble but Matthew is straightforward and to the point: 'I'm going to jump', 'the bridge is closed', 'because I can', etcetera.  
_

_The definition of a town differs between countries, from populations of five hundred to as many as twenty thousand. This town is about three thousand; the kind where you would recognize all of the faces but maybe not all of the names._

_We've hit sixty chapters. Ugh. o_0) I am still accepting requests for this. I use it to blow of steam, even when I should be working on other projects. (I do have a couple in the works, and I need to edit some pieces. Cough, cough, Crossroads, cough.) If you submitted something earlier than chapter fifty that I have not written yet, please resubmit it. It was probably on the list my cat ate…_


	61. Colourful World

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Colourful World' by Kathryn Ostenberg. This song makes me bounce._

**Colourful World**

Prussia and Canada walked down the street holding hands. Canada swung a plastic bag of vegetables and rambled about this and that and everything in between. They had not seen each other in over a week and they were starved for affection.

Prussia grinned and pretended that he was listening, but really, he just liked the sound of his voice.

Canada lit up, lifting the bag when he tried to gesture with his hand, and laughed at his own joke. His blonde hair was pushed behind his ears and tangled in his eyeglasses, his jeans were tattered, and his sleeves were too long. He was unkempt and forgetful but he watched Prussia as if he were the most important person in the world… And that was amazing.

Prussia squeezed his hand and laughed along with him.

He was so lucky to have the other nation in his life. He had suffered so much heartbreak and pain over the years but being with Canada was… Easy. He made love _easy_.

He never asked for more than Prussia was willing to give, and he never tried to change him. He accepted Prussia for who he was and expected the same in return. He never pushed him away or pulled him too close; he never told him that he was being juvenile, or unreasonable, or outrageous, even when he deserved it.

Canada loved him, just as he was, and Prussia loved him for that.

A crowd of children shrieked and ran around them, and under their swinging hands. Prussia chuckled and swatted after them. They ducked around the corner, catcalling and whistling at Prussia and Canada.

Canada beamed at him.

"… What?" Prussia asked after a moment. Canada's smile grew even wider, if possible.

"I love you, you know that, right?"

Prussia flushed. He acted larger than life and overconfident, and he was, but Canada was straightforward and honest and… Well, it got to him. It was hard to brush it off as _meaningless_ because everything he said was so very _meaningful_.

He meant what he said and he said what he meant.

"Yeah, I know," Prussia mumbled. He could see the neighbourhood children peeking around the corner, watching them. How embarrassing.

Canada tugged on his hand and pulled him closer. He knocked their foreheads together.

"And you love me too, right?"

"… Yes."

"Say it," he mouthed the words against his lips, not quite touching but close enough that he could taste him. Prussia shivered, even though he was wearing a sweater and the sun was warm against his back. He heard a chickadee whistle in the elm trees, taunting him.

Prussia curled an arm around Canada and pressed their lips together. Canada melted into him.

"I _love_ you," he whispered. The children tittered and fell over each other and Prussia knew that their mothers would be gossiping in the morning but it was worth it. So worth it.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This is just a little nothing chapter because the song has been rolling around in my head. Also, fluff._

_I posted a bunch of drabbles on tumblr. today (under the same pen name) if you need even more fluff. I've been a bit manic._


	62. Take This Waltz

_Just a short piece to get back into the swing of things. I hope to post a couple more chapters this week._

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Take This Waltz' by Patricia O'Callaghan, originally by Leonard Cohen. I have always really liked the lyrics to this song. It is a wonderful mixture of gloominess and romance. It would actually be a perfect song for AustriaxHungary, for obvious reasons, if anyone wants to throw themselves on that. _

**Take This Waltz**

Canada glanced up from his reading to see Prussia holding his hand out to him. He looked like a gentleman, even with his hair a mess and his shirt turned inside out. Canada pursed his lips.

Music drifted through the house, songs that were old and warped and still beautiful. The gramophone scratched and screeched but it did not matter.

"May I have this dance?"

Canada closed the tome and set it on his lap.

"Gilbert, I can't dance."

"Yes, you can."

"Alright, I _don't_ dance."

Prussia twiddled his fingers but kept his hand extended. His smile softened.

"Dance with me," he said again.

"Gilbert…"

"What are you so afraid of?"

Canada bit his lip. What _was_ he so afraid of? Messing up, for one, and stepping on his toes. Tripping... Falling on his face.

"… I don't want you to… I don't want you…" He had no idea how to articulate his fears. Quite simply, he did not want Prussia to see him make a fool of himself.

Prussia narrowed his eyes and studied Canada. Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Canada tried to swallow his disappointment. It was his fault, after all. He _had_said 'no'…

But instead of walking through the door, Prussia stopped and flicked the lightswitch beside it. He wandered over to the windows and pulled the curtains closed, casting the den into total darkness.

Canada squinted but he could not see anything.

"What are you doing…?" He asked cautiously, shuffling the weathered volume in his lap to the side. He reached his hand out blindly, grasping at thin air, and jumped when Prussia snatched it and twined their fingers together. He pulled Canada up and wrapped an arm around his waist.

Canada blushed and buried his face in his shoulder.

"Dancing," he shrugged.

"In the dark?"

Prussia sighed and tugged Canada a little closer. He breathed against his ear.

"You're shy," he whispered, matter-of-fact, and it tickled, "so I thought this might help. You. To dance. With me."

Canada hummed and pressed a smiling kiss against his neck at the stuttered explanation. He hated to admit it, but it did help. He did not have to worry so much about stumbling or flushing in the dark; he did not have to agonize over his awkwardness or social anxiety. He just needed to rock back and forth and let Prussia take the lead.

He ran his free hand up his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured, and he meant it. He was always surprised at how easily the other nation could read him and his insecurities. Prussia saw more than people gave him credit for.

"You're welcome."

The music warbled and curled through their house. Canada focused on the notes and tried to place the song but it was impossible. It was from the 1920's, he thought.

Canada kept time to Prussia's heartbeat, drumming against the hand on his chest.

"… Why is this so important to you, anyway?" Canada prodded after a moment. Prussia chuckled and twirled him around, nipping at his earlobe. Prussia always asked him to dance, and Canada always said no, but he kept asking.

"It's not," Prussia lifted him off his bare feet. He dipped him and Canada held on tighter. "But you are. _Important to me_. And I wanted to dance with you."

Canada blinked and stammered and blushed, even though the other nation could not see it. They were sleeping together, and living together, but neither of them had managed to muster up those three little words. They were both afraid of being hurt. Again.

But this confession… Well, it was pretty damned close. It was close enough to 'I love you' for now. Close enough for him. For them.

Canada leaned forward and kissed Prussia on the forehead, the cheek, the nose, until he found his lips. Prussia dipped him even lower without ever breaking the kiss. It was long and slow and meaningful.

They were not even swaying anymore, all pretense of dancing gone.

"You're important to me too," Canada whispered against his lips. Prussia grinned.

And it was close enough for now.


	63. You and I

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'You and I' by Ingrid Michaelson. I think that this song suits them, and that it suits the domestic side of their relationship. Besides: ukulele. 'Nough said._

_This chapter is dedicated to the guest 'Kalina' who reviewed a bunch of my stories and I just wish I could write her back. But because she never signed in, well, this is the best I can do. I just really wanted her to know how much appreciated the reviews and how much they meant to me. So… Thank you._

_And a very special thank you to everyone else who sends me reviews. I may not always reply but I always wander around with a stupid smile on my face for the rest of the day. I love you!_

**You and I**

Prussia and Canada sat in the den, curled around each other and bathed in the glow of their Christmas Tree. A menorah decorated the mantle, surrounded by sigillaria and wax berries. Creased and painted paper charms hung from the ceiling on knotted threads. Candles adorned the shelves in gold and silver and dripped onto the polished floorboards; a Yule Log crumpled in the fireplace. Their stockings were nailed to the trim, crooked and tattered and perfect, and their shoes were still on the porch from the fifth.

As nations, they had seen a thousand festivals and traditions come to pass and they tried to celebrate each one; they incorporated the symbolism and superstitions into their own celebrations. Customs were fluid, and so was religion. They knew that.

Canada pulled the worn blanket over them and Prussia settled further into his arms. He was drinking spiced cider, with cloves and ginger, while Prussia sipped hot chocolate. The whipped cream caught on the tip of his nose.

They watched the fire dance on the grate.

"I like it here," Prussia said after a moment. Canada did not bother asking where 'here' was; it did not matter. He could have meant 'here' in his arms, or 'here' in the house they had built together, or even 'here' in this moment. It did not matter.

Canada hummed in agreement and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. His pale hair tickled his lips.

"Me too."

* * *

Canada leaned back on his hands and lost himself in the stars. They had built their house on a mountain and the view was fantastic.

Prussia opened the window and peeked out.

"What are you doing out there?"

Canada shrugged his shoulders and laughed. He was sitting on the wet shingles, bare foot and shirtless and perilous. He was sitting at the very top of it all.

"Just watchin' the world turn," he sighed, and his breath painted the air white as he shivered.

Prussia cocked an eyebrow.

"You're cold." It was not a question.

He laughed.

"Only on the outside."

Prussia disappeared for a second and came back with a faded patchwork quilt. He opened the window a little wider and climbed out onto the roof, using the eaves for balance.

He flopped down beside him and threw the blanket around his shoulders.

Canada kissed him on the cheek.

"Makes you feel kind of small, doesn't it?" Prussia whispered, watching the stars travel across the sky. The ravages of pollution had stolen some of them, but Prussia and Canada remembered where each dot and pinprick used to be. There were thousands of stars but there used to be a million more.

"I like that feeling. It keeps me grounded. Sane."

"Ah," Prussia chuckled, "that explains why I hate it, then."

Canada snorted and jostled him. Prussia just pulled Canada against his chest and rested his chin on his curls. The slope of the roof worked in his favour and granted him a couple of additional inches.

"No one would ever accuse _you_ of common sense, Gilbert. You have nothing to worry about."

Prussia nuzzled the hollow behind his ear. He inhaled.

"No, I really don't, do I?" He whispered against his skin, soft and serious.

Canada wound their fingers together.

"Not anymore."

* * *

Canada set the log in place and backed up. He checked the blade of the axe with calloused fingers.

It was sharp.

He spread his legs far enough that the axe would not hit him on the downswing, just in case he missed. Canada raised it above his head, judging the distance and the knots and the peeling tree bark.

He brought the axe down and let the momentum do most of the work for him.

The log splintered and someone clapped. Once, twice. Canada flinched and barely managed to suppress the instinct to twirl around and drive the axe home… Into their ribcage.

He loosened his grip on the handle in controlled increments. He counted to ten. He breathed in and out.

"Hot!" Prussia exclaimed. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and Canada leaned into him, still counting. Canada was sweating but Prussia did not seem to mind.

"Rule number one," Canada admonished after a moment, catching his breath. "Never, ever sneak up on someone with an axe."

Prussia laughed and it rumbled low in his chest.

"And what's 'rule number two'?"

"Something about Fight Club…" Canada smirked. He wedged the axe into a block of wood, safe and out of reach, and bent back to wind his fingers into his pale tresses. He turned just enough to kiss Prussia on the lips.

He listened to his heartbeat and tried to quiet his own.

* * *

"Were you in my garden? You were in my garden, weren't you?"

Canada paused in the entrance and set his keys on the bureau they kept there. He slipped off his shoes.

And stared.

There were petals scattered up the stairs in different colours and sizes. Pinks and blues and purples. Prussia had coated the stairs in wild flowers.

Canada smiled. Somehow, even his expressions of affection were destructive, but he would not have it any other way. He loved Prussia, and he loved his attempt at romance.

Even though Canada would end up cleaning the mess…

He climbed the stairs and followed the trail of petals to their bedroom. The door was open.

Prussia was sprawled across the bed, naked and frowning and miserable. The silk bedsheets were covered in flowers and there were candles on the dresser and bookcase. The drapes were drawn and cast the room in twilight, despite the fact that it was three in the afternoon.

Canada leaned against the doorframe and studied him.

"Well, this looks nice. Mind if I join you?"

Prussia looked up and his glare intensified. Canada let his eyes roam and found the indicative rash of an allergic reaction spreading across his chest and hips. He snickered.

"Mattheeew," Prussia mewled. He downright _mewled_. "I think I'm dyiiing."

Canada brushed some of the flowers onto the carpet and sat down next to Prussia. He checked his temperature and his eyes. He ran his fingertips over the rash, touching the raised blisters and hives.

"You're not dying," he rolled his eyes. "You're just an idiot."

Prussia pouted and threw himself into his lap. Canada stroked his hair in a 'there, there' gesture.

"But thaaat's mean! I might be dyiiing!" He whined, kicking his feet.

"I doubt that." Canada picked through the petals and found a leaf. He held it up. "See this? This, my dear, it poison ivy. And you've been rolling in it."

Prussia glanced between the leaf and Canada and back again. He groaned.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me!"

"Sorry, no."

Canada hummed and leaned forward to kiss him. Prussia parted his lips easily and licked inside his mouth.

"It was a nice thought, though," he murmured against his lips.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But stay out of my garden."

"'kay."

* * *

Canada threw a freshly washed sweater at Prussia and hit him square in the face. He giggled.

"Hey!" Prussia spluttered even as he grinned. He was slouched on their sofa, with a beer in one hand and his feet kicked up on the ottoman. Canada nudged him with his toes and threw another sweater at him.

"Help me fold," he said. He had just washed and dried the laundry and the least Prussia could do was help him fold the pile in front of him. Their clothes were twisted and hopelessly tangled, just like them, and he knew that they would all end up in the same dresser regardless of who owned them. They were close enough to a size that it did not matter.

"I hate chores," Prussia whined even as he set down his beer and picked up a sweater. He held it up and glared at it.

"And I don't care. Fold."

Prussia quirked an eyebrow. He smirked.

"Or what? You'll punish me?"

"Kinky," Canada laughed, leaning forward, "but no. I'll _cry_."

Prussia looked scandalized and Canada snorted, patting his hand fondly. Even after all this time, he still knew how to push his buttons. Prussia did not know how to deal with tears, and his tears were the absolute worst. He would give Canada almost anything if he quivered and pouted his lips.

"That's low," he hissed.

"Mmm."

"You're mean."

"And you're easy. Now shut up and fold."

Prussia grumbled and started folding the sweater in his hands. Badly. Canada just rolled his eyes.

They worked in silence for a couple of minutes, Canada peeking at Prussia between sweaters and towels and underwear. He had only managed to fold a handful of garments and each one was in worse shape than the last. He stuck his tongue out in concentration.

Cute.

Canada ducked his head and smiled. It was surprisingly domestic, living with Prussia, but he would not have it any other way. He liked the routine and the simple pleasures. He liked creating traditions and celebrating holidays and having inside jokes.

It was… Nice. Great. Perfect, even.

_Awesome_.

Canada grabbed a sweater at random, one of his, and bounced forward to pull it over Prussia's head in one swift motion. Prussia gasped and stammered as his pale hair stood on end. The red of the sweater brought out his eyes.

"Wha…? What was that for?" He asked even as he pushed his arms through the sleeves. Canada kissed his cheek. There was something about seeing him in his sweater that was sweet and intimate. Possessive, somehow.

Prussia was _his_. This house was _theirs_.

"You're cute," Canada said simply, nuzzling into the soft sweater. It smelt wonderful. Prussia wrapped his arms around his waist and tugged him closer until Canada was draped over him on the sofa, laundry forgotten.

"I could say the same about you."

It was quiet for another couple of moments before Canada tried to sit up and Prussia held him in place.

"Gilbert, chores," he reminded him, laughing. Prussia chuckled.

"I think you'll find it's pronounced 'cuddling'."

Canada gave up and flopped against him, revelling in the warmth. He liked it 'here' too.

"You just don't want to fold laundry," he accused affectionately. Prussia kissed the top of his head and pulled him even closer.

"That too."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Just a little bit of domestic bliss, because it's fun to write and it suits these two so well. They're so cute. Ridiculous, of course, but cute. (I've totally used the 'I'll cry' threat. It works.)_

_If you see this, Kalina, I just wanted to say thank you. You made my day over and over again._


	64. I Am Not A Robot

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'I Am Not A Robot' by Marina and the Diamonds. I believe that someone requested it, but I cannot remember who it was. Please raise your hand if it was you._

_Let's be honest; every high school has a back door or stairwell for less than legal activities. At my school, it was the 'North Doors'. That was where the tobacco and marijuana enthusiasts met. And, sometimes, that was where small favours were exchanged for a couple of dollars or a bit of something harder. _

_Trust me; this place existed at your school too, whether or not you knew it. And fifteen dollars was the going price._

**I Am Not A Robot**

Matthew pushed his hands into his pockets and slinked around the east side of the high school, sidling up to the burn outs and drop outs. He kept his eyes down and his nose clean, ignoring the catcalls and whistles as he walked past. One of the students slapped him on the backside and hissed propositions in his ear.

"Fifteen bucks for a blowjob, right? Or was it twenty?"

The crowd tittered and laughed as he shook his head and weaved between them. He kept refusing but the student kept asking. Around and around and around…

He was uncomfortable, and out of his element, but it did not matter. Not really. He was not there for himself, or even for them.

He was there for _him_.

Matthew peeked through the fringe of his unruly blonde curls and tried not to smile when he found Gilbert leaning against the painted and crumbling brickwork, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He was frowning and still, except for his hands. His hands were nervous and shaking as he rolled the cigarettes between his fingers.

Matthew wondered if anyone else, if the geeks or freaks or tweaks surrounding him even noticed that Gilbert was drowning on dry land. That he was flailing. That he was vulnerable, and broken, and grasping at straws.

But he had noticed, Matthew had noticed, and that would have to be enough.

Matthew stepped beside him and tried to look casual as he examined his fingernails. It was a lost cause, of course; he did not belong there. He did not fit in.

But that would not stop him.

"Again?" Gilbert sighed without looking up. He offered Matthew a cigarette, which he politely refused. As always. "What'd'ya want, kid?"

He was only two years younger than Gilbert, but he would never let him forget it.

"You're not that much older than me," he pouted, petulant. Gilbert just shrugged.

"Two years is a long time," Gilbert said, wrapping his lips around the cigarette and sucking. Matthew watched his cheeks flutter and hollow, and swallowed. Hard.

He coughed and looked elsewhere.

"Not that long."

"But I know things. I've _learnt_ things. The world is a cruel and unwelcoming place…"

"Bullshit," Matthew muttered.

"… And you're naïve."

He snorted at the choice of the words and jostled him. He was not naïve. Not in the slightest. Gilbert just blinked, surprised, and stared at him through long, pale eyelashes. Matthew thought that his heart might stop.

He could gaze into those eyes forever. They were bottomless. Fathomless. Matthew had never seen eyes like those before he met Gilbert.

Now they were all he could see.

Matthew and Gilbert had two classes together. Just two. But Matthew spent those classes watching Gilbert. Studying him. He was smitten, _infatuated_ even, and he knew Gilbert inside out. He acted tough. He acted like he could care less, like the world owed him something, like he had nothing to prove...

But he was also raw and dispirited; aching and empty. And Matthew was worried that he would do something stupid… Something pointless. Gilbert was the type of person who took risks; who went too far; who picked fights and lost.

So, every lunch hour, Matthew navigated the seething mass of teenage hormones just to stand beside Gilbert for a few minutes… Just to let him know that he was not alone in all of this. That it would get better, eventually, and if not, well, they could always drown together.

He liked to think that Gilbert appreciated the gesture. He started offering Matthew cigarettes, and small, secret smiles in the corridors, and that was more than enough for Matthew.

"I'm not naïve," he mumbled, scrutinizing a group of approaching students. Gilbert laughed, outright, and brushed off that same student that had propositioned Matthew earlier. The one who never took 'no' for an answer. The student growled and turned around, staring longingly at Matthew even as he backed off.

"Alright," Gilbert amended, raising his middle finger at the student, "you're not naïve. But you're innocent. Pure. _Pristine_."

Matthew sighed in relief as the student disappeared into the crowd. He thought about arguing with Gilbert. He was not as wholesome as Gilbert insisted he was; he had his own secrets, and lies, and a gnarled, tangled web of bad decisions chasing him around.

But it did not matter. Gilbert thought that he was pure, pristine, and perfect.

And for him, Matthew would be anything he wanted.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Matthew hummed, glancing at his hands. The trembling was worse than ever, like withdrawal mixed with an existential crisis. He reached for his hand before he could talk himself out of it. He held on tight.

It was a rash, and impetuous, and…

And Gilbert let him. He even squeezed his hand back, and his palms were slick with sweat and engine oil. His fingernails were stained with dirt and cigarette smoke and Matthew thought that he would faint.

_Wow._ Holding hands with Gilbert was everything that he thought it would be.

Their hands fit together like puzzle pieces. His own were splattered in paint and tied with knots of string; Gilbert's hands were calloused and covered with scars, and they brought out the best in each other.

He grinned at Gilbert. Gilbert flushed and looked anywhere else.

"You're making me look bad," he whispered, but his hands had stopped shaking. He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it, twisting his ankle.

"Impossible," Matthew laughed, and he meant it. Whether he was tough or weak, a 'bad boy' or 'shy guy', he thought that Gilbert was wonderful. Maybe even perfect.

And he hoped that they could keep holding hands forever.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_In this, I see Gilbert as being that bad boy, the one who skips class and takes shops and runs the stereotypes. The one that everyone expects to end up in prison or somewhere worse. But, obviously, he is deeper than that. Matthew would be the perfect student, a little sensitive, and perhaps an artist. He would be awkward, but he would mean well.  
_

_But, really, all teenagers are awkward, and I am glad that Matthew was able to see past the mask Gilbert wears to school. (À la 'Breakfast Club'.) We all wear masks, sometimes, if only to get by. _

_I wrote this as a little halting, a little awkward on purpose. For obvious reasons._


	65. Remix

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Remix (I Like The)' by New Kids on the Block. It was requested by someone unable to log in. Can we all take a moment to appreciate how VIVACIOUS the woman in the music video is? May we all be so lucky._

_I guess I'll dedicate this chapter to all the unknown reviewers. You know who you are, even if I don't._

**Remix**

Gilbert sat with his chin in his hand and pretended to care as the teacher wrote equations across the chalkboard in sure, thick lines. It was June and he was in the twelfth grade; he was _this _close to freedom and he refused to give a damn.

He glanced out the window and watched the clouds drift past. It was a beautiful afternoon, and he would have given anything to be outside, but his younger brother was keeping an eye on him. He had failed three classes last year and this was his second time through the twelfth grade; his brother was adamant that he did it right this time around, and that meant no skipping classes.

But it was certainly tempting.

The teacher was reaching high on the chalkboard, her short skirt bunching over her rounded thighs, but even that was not enough to hold his attention. Hell, _no one _was paying attention.

Except for one person.

Gilbert glared at the student sitting to his left, with his head down and his pencil flying across the pages of his notebook. He was actually taking notes, and highlighting whole paragraphs in yellow and orange. Ugh.

His name was… Matthew. Matthew Williams. And whereas Gilbert had been held back a year, Matthew was graduating two years ahead of schedule. What a keener…

He was blonde, Gilbert thought, but he always wore hooded sweaters and kept them pulled up even in the summer heat. His eyeglasses were crooked and bent, with thick lime green frames and tape over the bridge of his nose. There was a small bruise decorating the corner of his mouth and Gilbert knew that he had been in another scuffle.

He came across as quiet and shy and dreadfully, unmistakably gay but he was not a pushover. Gilbert had seen him take on bullies before… He even won sometimes.

Gilbert leaned over and knocked his notebook to the ground. He was not even sure why he did it. Matthew stared at him in surprise.

Gilbert grinned.

"What was_ that_ for?" Matthew hissed, bending over to scoop up his notes. He glanced at the teacher, afraid of getting in trouble.

"It's June seventh."

Matthew paused and looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow. Gilbert had never realized how delightfully purple his eyes were.

"… And?"

"And school's almost out."

Matthew blinked.

"… And?" He asked again.

"So stop taking notes, dumbass."

Matthew straightened up and dropped his notebook back onto his desk. Gilbert watched his hands. They looked soft.

"What if this," he gestured to the chalkboard and their teacher's ever rising skirt, "is on the exam next week?"

"It won't be."

"But what if it is?"

"But it _won't_ be!"

Their whispered conversation was starting to catch the attention of the other students. Gilbert revelled in the attention but Matthew flushed, embarrassed.

"How do_ you_ know?"

Gilbert snorted.

"Because I took this class last year. Duh."

"… And obviously _failed_ it," Matthew mumbled under his breath. Gilbert heard him anyway and he let loose a short bark of laughter.

He reached over and plucked the notebook out of Matthew's hands. He threw it in his own backpack, for no other reason than to see the other student stutter.

"You can have it back at the end of the week," he declared. Matthew gaped at him.

"But…!"

"No. You need to lighten up, kid."

* * *

That had been on Monday. It was now Wednesday morning.

"Can I please have my notebook back?" Matthew asked desperately, hurrying after Gilbert as he weaved through the corridors. He would have been lying if he said that he did not like the attention.

"Nope."

"But exams are coming up and…"

Gilbert looked over at him and adjusted the bag on his shoulder.

"Are you honestly telling me that you haven't been studying for the past, what, two, three months?"

Matthew blushed and tugged on the hem of his oversized sweater, trying to disappear. Gilbert quirked an eyebrow.

The answer have been 'yes', then. Keener...

* * *

Gilbert knew that Matthew tried to follow him that same afternoon. He was not exactly inconspicuous, in his bright red sweater and untied sneakers that clicked with each step.

It made Gilbert smile.

His friends kept asking him why he was hanging around the other student; why he was wasting his time on a wallflower. Gilbert just shrugged. It was hard to explain, except that he was bored and Matthew was interesting. And he was fun to tease.

"I know you're there," he shouted over his shoulder, laughing when Matthew squeaked and tripped over his own feet.

"Then give me back my notebook!"

"Make me, short stuff!"

"… I'm taller than you are."

Gilbert frowned and turned around, gauging his height.

"No you're not."

"I am too."

Matthew hurried to stand beside him and straightened up, measuring their height difference with a languid flick of his wrist. It turned out that he was quite a bit taller when he was not hunched over in a misguided attempt to come across as unassuming.

And he was definitely taller than Gilbert.

"Well, fuck."

Matthew beamed and it was the first time that Gilbert had ever seen him smile. It suited him, and Gilbert found himself wanting to see that smile more often.

* * *

"I have a problem."

Francis draped himself over his shoulders and poked him in the cheek, clucking his tongue. Antonio chuckled.

"You have ninety nine problems."

"Ha ha, very funny." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Thanks, man."

"You're welcome." Francis stepped around him and settled into his lap without any regard for his personal space. He toyed with a strand of his pale hair. "But what's bothering you, my dear?"

The three of them were sitting in an unused classroom, sprawled across seven desks pushed together. Antonio was lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head; Francis had claimed Gilbert as a throne.

"I… I want to ask someone to graduation."

"Ooh! Do tell!" Francis clapped his hands together. Their graduation dinner and dance was next week, and it was the biggest event of the school year.

"I think… I want to ask Matthew."

Francis blinked and Antonio sat up.

"… Matthew Williams? The, uhm, well, 'nerd'?"

Gilbert laughed.

"That's the one."

"I did not know you, ah, felt that way about him," Francis frowned, not upset so much as confused. Antonio patted the top of his head like he was a particularly well-mannered pet.

"How wonderful! Love is a beautiful thing, you know!"

Gilbert flushed and shook his head.

"I _like_ him, sure, but I'm not in love with him or anything."

"Yet," Antonio assured him, humming. Gilbert wanted to argue further but Francis cut him off.

"Does he know that you like him?" He asked, examining his fingernails in a poor excuse for disinterest. Gilbert shrugged.

"He might. I mean, I've been holding his notebook hostage."

"His… Notebook?"

"Don't ask."

"Well, then! You must confess your love beneath the stars and kiss him! Passionately!" Antonio thrust a finger into the air and puffed out his chest. Gilbert just growled and pushed him over with one hand.

"Damn it, Antonio, I said 'no'!"

"… He might be right," Francis ventured.

"Not you too, Francis," he groaned, deflating.

"No, I mean it. I've seen his type before. He's shy and soft spoken, right? Self conscious?"

"I guess."

"Subtlety is lost on him, then." Francis pointed out, matter-of-fact. "Not that _you're _subtle, of course, but he's the type that assumes he is somehow unlovable. Undesirable, even. He won't know that you're hitting on him because he does not _expect_ you to. He's a wallflower through and through."

Gilbert let that sink in. It almost made sense. Matthew did have that self depreciating, self loathing air to him. It saddened him, because the longer Gilbert spent with the other student, the more he saw that Matthew was intelligent, dedicated, and driven. He was sweet and charming. Hell, he was just plain awesome.

Gilbert saw that now, even if Matthew could not.

"So what should I do, then?"

"I have no idea," Francis shrugged unapologetically. Antonio sniggered and shifted onto his stomach, untying Gilbert's shoelaces with deft fingers.

"… You guys _suck_," Gilbert pouted.

* * *

"Can I have my notebook back?"

"No."

"Please"

"No."

"… How about now?"

* * *

"Hey! Hey, Gilbert!" Matthew chased him down the corridor. Someone stuck out their foot to trip him but he took it in stride and jumped. Gilbert frowned and memorized the locker number of the offending student.

He would be back, and they would be sorry.

"Hey, short stuff."

"Gilbert, we talked about this."

"Mmm," he hummed. "Are you alright?"

Matthew stopped short and cocked his head to the side in bewilderment.

"W-what? What do you mean?"

Gilbert gestured to the idiots who had tried to trip him. They were laughing and pointing.

Matthew blushed. He shrugged and avoided eye contact; embarrassed but not upset. Gilbert thought he should be annoyed, at the very least. Hell, he should be furious!

"Oh, _them_," Matthew rolled his eyes. "That's nothing new. I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't _have_ to get used to it," Gilbert hissed. He felt truly and righteously angry on behalf of his… Uh, friend.

Matthew blinked. He looked at Gilbert like he had never seen him before.

And then he blushed another shade darker, this time in pleasure rather than humiliation. It was rather becoming, although Gilbert refused to acknowledge the fluttering in his stomach. He knew that his own cheeks were flushed too.

"Thanks…" Matthew whispered.

"… Anytime."

* * *

That evening, Gilbert came back to the high school with a bucket of pig's blood and blue cheese. He broke into the bully's locker and made sure to coat everything he owned in the sloppy mixture. By tomorrow, it would smell to high heaven.

Gilbert grinned at a job well done and left the bucket in the locker.

* * *

"So where are you going?" Gilbert stepped up beside Matthew and nudged his ribs.

"To the library, Gilbert," Matthew sighed. "To study."

Gilbert flinched at the 'dirty' word. Matthew smirked, amused.

"That's stupid. You should hang out with me, instead."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. Something awesome, probably."

Matthew raised an eyebrow.

"That's very… Specific of you."

"That's me; Mister Spe…" Gilbert stumbled over the complicated syllables. "Mister Specififi… Specificici… Damn it. I'm specific as _fuck_, anyway."

Matthew chuckled into his hand, trying to smother the sound. Gilbert reached out without thinking and pulled his hand away from his mouth. He wanted to hear him laugh.

Matthew trailed off and he stared at Gilbert from much too close.

"Gilbert, what…?"

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't hide."

Matthew turned bright red and Gilbert followed suit. He walked Matthew the rest of the way to the library and it was awkward and nerve-wracking but…

Gilbert did not let go of his hand.

* * *

That had been yesterday. It was Friday now and the last day of classes before exams and graduation

"Gilbert, it's Friday."

They were eating lunch together in the courtyard, curled up against an old tree and watching the clouds roll by.

"Gee, I hadn't noticed."

"I mean, it's the end of the week."

"Friday normally is."

Matthew snorted.

"I _mean_, you promised to give me back my notebook at the end of the week."

Gilbert was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. He wanted to ask, he knew that he should, but he was worried that he would not like the answer.

He asked anyway.

"… Did you only hang out with me this week because you wanted your notebook back?"

Matthew tugged on the hood of his sweater and tried to look anywhere but at Gilbert.

"… No…"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Do you promise?"

Matthew chuckled nervously.

"I promise."

Gilbert stared at the other student, weighing his next question. He really _did _like him. Matthew was strangely attractive and terribly fascinating, despite his best attempts to fade into the woodwork.

He really liked him.

He really, really liked him.

"Then I have another question for you."

"Can I have my notebook first, please?"

Gilbert shrugged and reached into his backpack for the notebook. At the beginning of the week it had been his only tie to the other student but he no longer needed it, did he?

He pulled it out and went to hand it to Matthew but it fell between their outstretched hands in seeming slow motion…

And snapped open to a page with his name scrawled in the margins.

"Oh!"

Gilbert frowned and leaned over the notebook. He had never bothered to flip through it. Why would he? Notes were notes were notes, right?

Wrong.

His name covered the page, written in cursive and bubble letters and dotted with little hearts. 'Gilbert Beilschmidt, **Gilbert Beilschmidt, **GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT'. He turned the page and his name was there too.

He glanced up at Matthew.

"Uhm…" Matthew was frozen in place and pale. He looked sick. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

Gilbert was more amused than anything else, and relieved that his feelings might be returned, but Matthew was mortified. He scrambled for the notebook and held it tight against his chest.

"I d-d-didn't want you to see that. Ever."

"Too late now," he laughed.

"You must hate me. _I _hate me…"

"I don't hate you," Gilbert tried to reassure him. He reached out to comfort him, anything, but Matthew suddenly stood up and grabbed his satchel.

"I have to, uh, go. Away. Right now." He pulled his hood even further down and hid his face, even though he knew that Gilbert hated it when he did that. "I'll, ah, s-s-see you around. Or not. You know."

Matthew took off at a sprint and disappeared before Gilbert could stop him. His hand hovered in the air, searching for someone who was no longer there.

What the hell?

He clenched his hand into a fist and growled.

"Dumbass. I wanted to ask you to graduation," he said to no one in particular.

* * *

"So, did you ask him?" Francis asked him a couple of days later. They were standing in last aisle of the local rental place.

"Who?" Gilbert pouted, knowing that Francis was asking about Matthew.

"The boy. Matthew?"

Gilbert bit his lip and pawed through the videos.

"I, uh, didn't exactly get the chance. He freaked."

"… How so?"

Gilbert snorted.

"He booked it."

"Ah." Francis handed a video to Antonio, who shook his head and put it back when he was no longer looking. He picked up another one. "He just needs time."

"He needs to fucking _calm down_, that's what he needs…"

Francis smacked him with the video in his hands.

"He's embarrassed. It _happens_. Give it time. He likes you; everyone has been talking about it."

Gilbert stopped.

"Who the hell is 'everyone'?!"

"Everyone is everyone, of course. People talk, you know. And you two _have _been joined at the hip all week. And maybe joined elsewhere…?"

"You're an idiot, and a pervert, and a gossip monger," Gilbert huffed, but he felt a little better.

"Guilty as charged," Francis handed the movie to Antonio. "But I'm also right. Just give him time."

* * *

Gilbert stared at the back of Matthew's head instead of focusing on the test in front of him. The students had been crowded into the gymnasium to write an essay on the effects of globalization. It was the first time Gilbert had seen Matthew all week.

He had been avoiding him; ducking down seldom used corridors and steering clear of the library. It sort of pissed him off but he was trying to give him space. Francis had said that he needed time.

Unfortunately, Gilbert was not known for his patience.

"Hey. Hey, you," he whispered, jabbing Matthew in the back with the tip of his pencil.

"What?" Matthew hissed.

"You're avoiding me."

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

Matthew actually turned around in his seat to stare at Gilbert.

"What do you mean 'why'?!"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"Because I was an idiot to think that you might like me."

"I _do_ like you."

"But I'm not _normal_," and he sounded genuinely upset. Gilbert wondered what his idea of 'normal' was. "I'm _weird_."

"Fuck normal. Weird is great. Weird is awesome!"

"You're just saying that…"

"I mean it."

A teacher walked past them and tapped his desk.

"Eyes down, mouths shut," she shushed. Gilbert made a face as soon as her back was turned.

Matthew went back to his test.

"… I wanted to ask you to graduation," Gilbert admitted after a moment of silence. Matthew tensed up but refused to turn around.

"Oh."

There was another stretch of silence between them before Gilbert realized the mistake in his phrasing.

"I, uh, _still_ want to ask you out."

"Oh!"

Matthew twisted in his seat again. He stared at Gilbert; a little flustered, a little confused, but obviously delighted.

"So…?"

"So?" Matthew repeated in a daze.

Gilbert sighed.

"So will you go out with me?"

Matthew opened his mouth to answer, to hopefully say 'yes', but the same teacher looped around to pinch Gilbert's ear and pulled him out of his chair.

"That's enough out of you, Mr. Beilschmidt."

"Ow, ow, ow!" Gilbert clawed at her hand as she dragged him out of the gymnasium by the ear. He reached out to Matthew longingly.

Matthew tried to look sympathetic for all of two seconds before bursting into laughter. He did not even bother trying to stifle it.

He was kicked out five minutes after Gilbert.

* * *

"Butts."

Francis stared at him.

"… Butts, my dear?"

"Butts," Gilbert said again solemnly.

"I take it you were kicked out of another exam?"

He nodded, just as solemnly.

"Uh huh."

"Did you get to talk to your boy, then?"

"He's not mine…"

"Yet!" Antonio chimed in. Gilbert glared at him.

"… But yes. And no."

"Yes and no?"

"Yes, I saw him, but no, not really. I asked him out, though."

"And?"

"And Ms. Phillips kicked me out before he could answer."

"Ah… So… 'Butts'."

"Butts," he agreed.

* * *

Gilbert did not see Matthew at all over the next week. The end of the year was always a tumultuous time at their high school, with students writing tests and clearing out their lockers and teachers sneaking sips from unmarked flasks.

He wanted to see him though. He kept leaving notes where Matthew might find them, writing his name over and over again on them.

'Matthew Williams, **Matthew Williams**, MATTHEW WILLIAMS'.

He wrote it everywhere, hoping to assuage the other student's worries. He honestly did not mind; he did not think it was creepy. He sort of thought it was flattering.

He liked that Matthew had been thinking about him long before he stole his notebook.

* * *

It was almost the end of the month, and almost graduation. Gilbert wondered if Matthew would show up.

"Damn it, he _better _come," Gilbert mumbled under his breath. "Or else."

"Gilbert, sweetheart, you're talking to yourself again."

He frowned.

"Shut up, Francis."

* * *

Gilbert leaned against the stonework and glared at the crowd of laughing students. Blue and silver balloons and streamers decorated every available surface. Banners hung from the ceiling.

But Matthew was nowhere to be found.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Antonio sidled up beside him, dragging a seething brunette behind him. The brunette snapped his teeth at Gilbert.

"I told you, he's not my boyfriend."

Antonio raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat, pausing for effect.

"… Yet." He grinned. Gilbert growled and shoved Antonio along. Francis sauntered past them with a date on each arm.

Gilbert settled back against the wall and watched the world go by.

And then he saw him.

Matthew.

Or, at least, he kind of looked like Matthew.

He walked in with his suit jacket over his shoulder and his mauve tie the slightest bit undone. His shoes were the same brilliant shade and caught the light with each step. It brought out his lavender eyes.

He was blonde, just as Gilbert thought he might be, and his hair hung in soft, loose curls that touched his collarbones. He was wearing new eyeglasses.

He looked sure of himself for once.

Matthew swept his eyes over the crowd and smiled coyly when he happened upon Gilbert. He stalked across the dancefloor to him.

And Gilbert realized that a hush had fallen over the graduating class, despite the low pulse of music. They were all watching him. Staring.

They were ogling the timid 'wallflower'. _His_ timid wallflower, damn it.

Except that he was not timid. Not anymore.

Matthew walked up to him and stood so that their legs were almost touching. He was up close and personal.

Gilbert glared over his shoulder at the gawking crowd, daring them to say anything.

He put a hand on Matthew's hip, pulling him even closer.

"You came," he whispered, half in surprise and mostly in awe. He threaded his fingers through his belt loops.

"Of course."

"Did you get my notes?"

Matthew grinned; a slow, deliberate stretch of lips. Delicious.

"I did."

"Cool. So, uh, you wan'na dance?"

"Absolutely."

Neither of them moved.

"… With me?" Gilbert clarified after a moment. Matthew laughed, and the sound made his knees buckle. Luckily, he was holding onto Matthew. He held on a little tighter. Just in case.

"_Yes_."

"Okay. Alright then. Uhm…" Gilbert led him out onto the dancefloor. The music was slow, and soothing, and that suited him just fine. He wrapped his arms around his waist.

Matthew wound his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. He pressed their foreheads together.

"I'm, uh, glad you came," Gilbert shifted closer, tilting his chin up. He was sure that he was blushing. "I really am."

Matthew stared at him, looking unsure for the first time since he walked in. There was something in his eyes that spoke of that same nervous, shy student Gilbert had teased three weeks ago.

He had not changed, not really, but he was no longer hiding.

"Me too," he breathed.

"You look good," Gilbert said suddenly, awkwardly.

"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

He flushed another shade darker.

"Uh…" He scrambled for something else to add, but it was hard to think with Matthew standing so close, breathing the same air. Had he always been so close?

Matthew cut him off before he could start talking about the weather.

"Kiss me."

"… What?" Gilbert stopped swaying. He stared at Matthew with wide eyes.

"You should kiss me."

"… I should?" His voice cracked.

"Yes. Right now."

Gilbert looked around the dancefloor. The entire high school was scattered around them in a broad, uneven circle; students and teachers, friends and bullies. Gawking. They were not even pretending to mind their own business.

"Here?" He hissed, caught somewhere between scandalized and hopelessly turned on.

"Here." Matthew nodded.

"… 'Kay."

He lunged forward and tugged on his belt loops so that the two of them crashed together. He bounced up on his tiptoes in the same motion and pressed their lips together. It was a bit crooked, with too much teeth, and absolutely, undeniably perfect.

Gilbert sighed against his lips. Matthew bit back a moan.

And someone, somewhere, whistled; cheering and catcalling and clapping. It was probably Antonio.

Gilbert just raised his middle finger in the general direction of the crowd and pulled Matthew even closer.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Teenagers are still awkward, but the dialogue was fun to write._

_I had no idea that the term 'keener' was considered Canadian slang. It refers to someone eager to share knowledge and excel, especially in schoolwork. Also, 'specificity' can be terribly hard to pronounce. Say it ten times fast, I dare you._

_This might sound like an odd request, but I was wondering if you (yes, you) could drop me a line and tell me which chapter so far has been your favourite. A survey of sorts. Or, if it is too difficult to pick just one, what are your top three choices? I'm trying to figure out what people like and what they don't like, even though I'll keep writing whatever I want because I'm an a$$hole like that. But it'll give me greater insight in any case._

_Only if you have a moment, of course._

_Thank you again for all of the love. You guys have been, as always, awesome._


	66. Forever and A Bit

_This one is short, but the previous chapter was longer, so... This chapter was inspired by the song 'Forever and A Bit' by Mother Mother and it is dedicated to a couple of the friends I met through program. PTSD is not my cross to bear but I have been touched by it because I have been touched by these beautiful, strong women. They will never read this, they will never even know it exists, but it's dedicated to them._

**Forever and A Bit**

Matthew sat upright, blinking back tears and the echoes of a nightmare. His hands scrambled over the furs beneath him, looking for someone warm and finding no one. His heart ached.

He felt like he was drowning, suffocating.

"Gilbert…?" He gasped, choking on his name as well as the unspoken plea therein: _Where are you? Please. Please, don't leave. Come back. Don't leave, don't leave me. Please. _He reached into the darkness, clutching. Grasping…

He almost sobbed in relief when Gilbert cursed and rushed forward. He pulled his hand against his cheek and leaned into it. He kissed his wrist and whispered against the marks there, a mixture of old wounds and new cuts.

"Matthew, Matthew, shhh… Birdie, I'm here. Shhh… Everything is fine. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." It was strange, but he was the one who sounded scared.

Matthew crawled forward, settling into his lap and waiting arms. Gilbert tucked his head underneath his chin and rocked him back and forth. He kissed the top of his head, the soft dip of his temple, the freckle behind his ear.

"Where _were_ you?" Matthew asked, tugging on his shirtsleeves. His voice quivered, trembled, warbled, and he hated it. He _hated_ it.

He hated feeling weak. Useless. He hated waking up confused and disjointed and incoherent. He used to be someone, once upon a time, and now he could not even leave the house. He used to have hopes and dreams. Now he had 'episodes'.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The four little words that had changed his life forever.

"I went to the washroom, just to the washroom, just down the hall." He muttered soothing words under his breath. "Shhh, shhh, it's alright…"

"I thought you had left…"

"Never. Never, I would never do that. I'm not leaving." Gilbert smoothed his curls and kissed up his neck. "I'm not going anywhere."

"… _Why_?" Matthew tried to swallow the question but it slipped past his lips before he could stop it, just as it had a thousand times before. And just as before, Gilbert answered with a sigh and a sad smile.

"Because," he explained, pulling Matthew closer, "I'm in love with you. I love you."

Matthew tightened his grasp and buried his face against his shoulder.

"But I'm broken," he murmured, kissing and licking the sweat from his skin. It tasted like home; Gilbert tasted like home. He snuggled further into his arms. "Ruined."

"You're not," Gilbert laughed, but the sound was perverted and warped. There was no delight in that laughter; it was a mixture of stubbornness and exhaustion and something deeper, heavier. But that fact that he could still laugh at all spoke volumes. He was strong in all the ways that Matthew was weak. "And even if you were, I would still love you. _Dumbass_. So stop asking."

The word 'dumbass' sounded light hearted on his tongue, almost charming. Affectionate. There were dark circles under his eyes, purple and smudged, and Matthew thought that he looked as tired as he felt. He wondered, yet again, why he stayed. He wondered why he bothered.

But he did not ask.

Instead, he curled against him and breathed in his scent.

Gilbert had found him twisted and bleeding in the gutter, barefoot and strung out on cocaine, and he had still fallen in love with him. He had still carried him home. He had cleaned his wounds and washed his hair and tucked him into bed. He had held his hand and hummed lullabies under his breath when Matthew hissed and thrashed and screamed.

He somehow managed to be accommodating and thoughtful, even beneath his brusque words and mannerisms. He was compassionate and considerate. He was beautiful.

Gilbert was a gift, one that he did not deserve. He was a miracle, truly. His saving grace. And Matthew would love him, however tainted and damaged and depraved that love might be, until the day he died.

"I love you too," he whispered against his skin. It sounded more like a promise than an endearment. Perhaps it was both. Maybe it did not matter.

Gilbert just held him tighter.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_One of the women I mentioned at the beginning published her journal, titled 'Taming the Hamster' and written under the pseudonym of Dakota Jade. It might speak to you if you have ever struggled with mental illness._

_I'll be out of the city for a couple of days but I should come back with some one shots and maybe even something worthwhile. _


	67. Last Night

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Last Night' by Good Charlotte. It was requested by an anonymous user on Tumblr._

**Last Night**

Matthew blinked, holding his hand up and tracing the bruises twisting up his arms. He was wearing someone else's oversized tee shirt and nothing else. He raised one of his legs and followed the line of bruises and marks up and up and…

He sat up.

Where was he? What happened?

The sofa was puckered and torn and hopelessly outdated in orange and olive tartan. He reached out for his eyeglasses and found a note instead. He squinted at it, shifting the note in and out of focus with shaking hands.

It said _'thanks' _in scrunched, hurried cursive.

Ah. Okay, a one night stand, then…

He frowned.

That did not sound like him at all…

He swung his legs over the end of the sofa and startled when he stepped in a slick, smooth mess. His eyeglasses crashed down onto his nose and he flinched as the world snapped into focus.

He must have pushed them up onto his forehead. That was not like him either…

He looked down. His foot squelched in a pile of four or five used condoms. He blanched.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned. His temples pulsed and ached. What the hell?

He looked around for his clothes. He found a single sock and nothing else. He growled, casting about the sofa for his mobile or wallet or car keys. Nothing.

Great. That was just great.

He clutched his temples and rocked forward, ignoring the mess under his feet. What the hell had happened? What had been so damned special about this stranger that he decided to throw caution to the wind and follow them… Home? Was this home?

He worried his swollen lips.

Why could he not remember anything? It must have been some fucking party….

Actually, no, that was a lie. He remembered broad hands dancing over his hipbones and a low, rasping voice. He remembered a deep, masculine laugh… But that was it.

Well, that and the butterflies in his stomach. He must have really, really liked him…

His eyes landed on a miniscule flashing alert and he all but lunged across the room. His fingers closed around, yes, his mobile. A little worse for wear, maybe, but it was definitely his mobile.

He clutched it against his chest, bare knees pressed into the carpet, and almost sobbed in relief. He could call his brother. Alfred would never let him live it down but at least he would pick him up.

He flicked it open and stared. Someone had changed his wallpaper.

It was a picture of him, obviously sloshed, and a pale, pale, pale man. His striking eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed, one arm thrown around Matthew and the other hand holding this mobile. Matthew was curled in his lap with a ridiculous smile on his face. He looked ecstatic.

Matthew flushed. Oh, wow…

He jumped as his mobile lit up again with an incoming text message. He opened it.

HEY, BIRDIE.

WENT TO THE STORE. TOOK YOUR CAR.

BE BACK SOON WITH EGGS. DON'T FREAK OUT, 'KAY?

- GILBERT

_Birdie_? That was a new one.

He opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. Huh. So perhaps it had not been a one night stand… He just wished that he could remember it… Maybe Gilbert could enlighten him when he came back.

And maybe he could _enlighten_ him, in italics. Matthew had obviously enjoyed himself, if the low ache and used condoms were anything to go by… And it was not like he had anywhere else to be.

Matthew smirked, straightening the collar of his borrowed tee shirt and settling back on his calves. He could wait…

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **_

_Please remember to use a condom (or five), even if you do not remember anything else. Otherwise you'll make me very, very sad._

_This one is short and somewhat similar to chapter twenty nine, but focuses entirely on his reaction to the situation without dialogue or interaction with outside characters. Also, Gilbert, you'll have to explain where his newest nickname came from. What happened last night? (Finally, the reeeal story behind the nickname 'Birdie'. No one in the fandom can agree, so it's all on you, sweetheart.)_


	68. I Hate You But I Love You

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'I Hate You But I Love You' by Russian Red. It is, unsurprisingly, a wonderful song to slow dance to in the kitchen. And, as everyone knows, the kitchen is the heart of the household._

**I Hate You But I Love You**

Prussia snuck up behind him, tapping one shoulder and ducking to the other side. Canada frowned, twisting right when he should have gone left. It was not the best time for his antics, but when was the best time, really?

The casserole in his hands was too large and awkward. It was more than a little warm.

"Gilbert," he reprimanded, shifting the casserole. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" He asked innocently, popping up on his left and trailing his fingers over his forearm. He fluttered his eyelashes.

"That."

Prussia smirked and pressed against his back. He nibbled on his earlobe.

"You'll have to be a _little_ more specific."

Canada snorted and tried to walk around him but Prussia refused to let him go. He kept stepping around him, in front of him, tugging on the dishtowel Canada had thrown over his shoulder. He ran his fingertips over his folded sleeves; candid and uncomplicated in his interest.

He snapped his suspenders and skimmed his hips and pinched his backside. He grinned.

Canada slipped the casserole across the counter and turned in his embrace. He wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, exasperated.

He both hated and loved Prussia in the same breath. He knew just which buttons to press, which strings to pull. He was aggravating, infuriating, absolutely maddening... And he was brilliantly, vibrantly beautiful. It hurt his eyes just to look at him.

So he closed them and leaned into the kiss.

"You're annoying," Canada murmured against his lips between kisses with practiced ease. It was the only way to get a word in edgewise. Prussia plucked at his suspenders again.

"I believe that it's pronounced 'adorable'."

"I'm pretty sure it's not."

Prussia let his hands wander further down the front of his trousers, entranced, and traced the buttons and fasteners. He nuzzled his collarbone. He laughed.

"What'd'you know, anyway?" Prussia muttered against his skin, painting new marks and nipping at old bruises. He pulled Canada into the centre of the kitchen and set one hand on his hips. He clasped the other hand in hand with his own.

Canada opened his eyes.

Prussia was beautiful, from his pale tresses to his broad shoulders to his calloused fingertips. His eyes were expressive, a storm of unspoken sentiments and unrestrained impulses; chaotic and frightening and utterly breathtaking. He somehow managed to be ethereal and so very human at the same time. Perfect and imperfect.

There was a… Softness to him, underneath the hard lines and plains. Hidden, maybe, but definitely, undeniably there.

It was tucked in the corner of his smile like a kiss.

Canada let Prussia set the pace. There was no music but it did not seem to matter much; they swayed as if they were dancing to the same song. And after a hundred years of loving and hating and loving each other, they might as well have been.

"I hate you," Canada said, not really meaning it.

"I love you too," Prussia whispered. Hate and love walked such a fine line, frustration and passion. They had first met on the battlefield, and they had hated each other. They had hated everything about each other. Now they adored those very same things; those little eccentricities and weaknesses... Those annoying tendencies and inclinations and habits... _Everything_.

He hated him. He loved him. He loved him, he loved him, _he loved him_.

Prussia continued to lead him around the kitchen, ignoring the casserole and the dishes in the sink. He kissed the end of his nose and knocked their foreheads together. Canada laughed.

And after a hundred years, they barely even stepped on each other's toes anymore.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I suppose that Canada is wearing an outfit that would not be amiss in the forties or fifties, based on the description, with the sleeves rolled up and his suit jacket thrown over the back of a chair. He probably just walked in. Also, the fact that he has not throttled Prussia yet speaks volumes. He must really, really love him. Prussia is utterly, dreadfully annoying. And distracting…_

_My brother and I use the 'It's pronounced…' excuse all the time. It's a wonder we have any friends at all._

_The reference to the kiss tucked in the corner of his mouth is, of course, a reference to Peter Pan._


	69. Wings

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Wings' by Birdy. (I know, right?) I refer to them as 'birds' here, but I picture them as humanoid creatures with birdlike features. What that means and what that might look like is up to you._

**Wings**

Matthew walked up to the precipice and looked down. So, so, so far down. He swallowed.

He could see the other birds soaring through the ravine, floating on streams and dancing on drafts. It was strange to be above them but still desperate and clinging to the earth. The rocks cut into his feet.

He ran his fingers over his plumage, picking at the rumpled feathers. He tugged on his useless primaries, slipped through his secondaries, and traced his yellow coverts. Broken. Worthless…

He turned sharply on his heel and stamped away, only to come back to the edge. He was drawn to the open air. He did not want to fall, no, but he wanted to fly. And he could not do one without the other.

He sat down and let his legs trail over the ravine. His feet were sore, they ached with every step. Birds were not meant to walk.

He leaned forward, curling in on himself, and cried into his hands. He had never felt so alone… So helpless…

"Hey."

Matthew sniffled and looked up to find another male hovering over him. His wings were brilliant and blue, tipped with white.

He landed next to Matthew and flopped down beside him.

"H-h-hello…" He stuttered, surprised. He was so high up; no one had been able to hear his cries for help, his screams. He had thought that he would be alone forever and ever and ever.

"What are you doin' up here?"

Matthew nervously clutched at his feathers.

"I… I, uhm… I can't fly."

The other bird frowned and looked him over, probably wondering how a flightless bird had managed to climb so high, so Matthew gestured to his wings and ruffled feathers. His primaries were sticking out at odd angles.

"Oh." He reached to touch them but stopped when Matthew flinched. He thought better of it. "May I?"

Matthew stared at him, at the stranger whose wingspan was so much greater than his, and wondered if he really had a choice. His wings were vulnerable, yes, but so was the situation…

But carding your fingers through another bird's feathers was intimate! It was an exercise in trust. Could he give a stranger that privilege?

"… My name is Matthew," he said after a minute. The other bird blinked.

"… Gilbert."

Matthew studied him. He did not seem like much of a threat, but in his state, everything was a threat. Could he trust him? Should he?

Did he have a choice?

"Here," Matthew sighed, holding out his wing. It was damp and darkened from trailing in the dirt. At least Gilbert was no longer a stranger in the strictest sense.

Gilbert blinked again, cocking an eyebrow, but he took the feathers reverently in his hands. He skimmed his fingers, his claws, over the delicate plumage. It tickled.

"How'd you manage this?" He asked softly, straightening a couple of the feathers. Matthew shivered. He had been groomed before, by family and close friends, but this felt decidingly different. He still felt exposed, but he sort of liked the feeling.

"I fell."

"You fell _up_? How?!" He laughed, incredulous. " 'Cause you're higher than everyone else. You're almost as high as the Great Lantern."

"Almost."

"… Oh."

Matthew had been trying to reach the Great Lantern, the radiant orb in the sky, when he had fallen. His brother had pushed him, goaded him, even as he had sworn it could never be done. And oh, how Matthew had wanted to prove him wrong…

He had flown up and up and up, except that he had grown tired and weak without a perch to land on. It had not been one of his better landings.

"What are you doing up here, then?"

Gilbert hummed and picked through his feathers.

"It's quiet, y'know? I come here to think."

"Oh. Yes. It is that."

He could not understand why someone would _want_ to be alone. It hurt. He hated it.

Gilbert clucked his tongue and smoothed over his feathers. Matthew buried his face in his folded arms and tried to swallow the low rumbling in his chest, the purring. It felt nice. It felt really, really nice.

He wished that the moment would never end…

But, of course, it did.

"There you go, all done," Gilbert grinned. He ruffled his curls. "You'll be fine."

He stood up and stretched and Matthew watched his muscles tense and flex underneath his skin. He fluttered his wings and ran his hands over the straightened feathers. It looked like everything was in place, brown and cream and yellow lined up in neat little rows.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"No problem."

Matthew peeked over the edge and watched the other birds swoop through the air. If he squinted, he could almost make out his brothers and sisters. And he wanted to go back, he did, but he was still scared.

He did not want to fall.

He must have blanched because Gilbert studied him for another minute before sighing and sitting back down. He leaned against Matthew.

He smelt like warmth and springtime.

"What…?"

Gilbert shrugged.

"I'll wait with you. Until you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

He reached out and held his hand. He did not even bother to ask for permission this time.

"Until you're ready to fly."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Oh em gee! Why are all of their conversations so awkward?! Ah, well, it's probably Matthew's first breeding season and he's all twitterpated._

_This is a first for me too, but I imagine that Matthew has the plumage of a Pine Siskin, which is a songbird native to Canada and the United States. They are streaked with white and cream and a splash of yellow on their folded wings. Very cute. On the other hand, I would compare Gilbert's feathers to that of a Blue Jay or Jaybird; a mixture of blue and white and black. They are a bit showier, with a crest, and tend to jeer. They have a very… Distinctive call, to say the least. They are quite intelligent and industrious._

_No, I do not draw birds in my spare time; I don't know what you're talking about…_


	70. November Blue

_This is dedicated to dearest 'Silver' on her birthday, and although I have never met her, I wanted her to know that she is special. Happy Birthday, from Mick and from me. Hugs and kisses._

_I listened to 'November Blue' by The Avett Brothers over and over again as I wrote this, and it flavoured the piece. Thank you for another wonderful song. This turned out a little softer, a little more introspective, a little more 'slice of life' than I expected… But I like it. The best love stories are the ones that take a lifetime to write. _

**November Blue**

Gilbert slouched down the slicked roads with his hands in his pockets. The streetlights caught on the puddles, and on the delicate rings of ice decorating the edges. He frowned down at the frost and grumbled.

Fuck, it was cold!

The leaves did not crunch or crumble as he stomped through them and he frowned a little harder. It was too damp, and bitter, for that. He turned his threadbare jacket up against the wind and mourned the passing of autumn.

He could almost taste December…

Gilbert rounded the corner and licked his lips as the Tim Hortons came into view, welcoming and warm. He crouched alongside the restaurant and slapped his palms against the windows, laughing when the blonde on the other side of the windowpane jumped. He grinned.

"Chickenshit," he mouthed as Matthew reached up and pressed his palm against his own, intimate and familiar. He wrinkled his nose and gestured to the two cups of coffee in front of him. Gilbert knew an invitation when he saw one.

He curled his fingers in recognition and tapped the windowpane once, twice, before turning around and walking in.

The restaurant was painted in shades of maroon and cinnamon. It smelt like heaven. Matthew waved him over with a soft smile and pushed out the seat across from him. Gilbert collapsed into it and kicked his feet up.

" 'Sup?"

Matthew grimaced and slipped one of the cups towards him without a word. It was still hot; sweet and pale and drowning in cream and sugar.

"Oh, man, I think I'm in love with you!" He sighed as he took a sip. Perfect. Matthew snorted and brushed off his affection.

"Uh huh."

Gilbert studied him over the rim of his cup. He looked a little lean, a little haggard. His sweater was torn and stained and so were his jeans. His lips were parched and flushed, and his hair was a mess, but it was still the brightest shade of yellow he had ever seen.

His stare was patient and compassionate but he hunched forward as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Maybe it was.

He looked exhausted.

Gilbert thought about leaving now and then, about packing up and joining the armed forces, about sweating in the mines or the oil sands. He thought about leaving it all behind; the _small town _and the _recession_ and the _crippling student debt_…

And then he thought about Matthew, with the weight of the world on his shoulders… And then he stopped thinking about it altogether.

He would never, could never leave; not if it meant leaving him. It was true that they were young, and unemployed, and desperate, but at least they had each other. That was enough.

They did not have much, but they had _enough_.

"C'mon," he said suddenly. He stood up and offered Matthew his arm. He took it.

"Where are we going?"

"Out."

Gilbert led Matthew down the streets and out of town, with his coffee in one hand and Matthew on the other. The wind seemed more temperate than it had even fifteen minutes earlier and the moon lit the gravel roads better than the streetlights could ever hope.

The stars were brilliant. Dazzling.

He dragged Matthew through field after field until he found the 'right' one. He pushed him down. It said a lot about Matthew that he had bothered to follow him so far, when it was so cold.

It said everything, actually.

"I really do think that I'm in love with you," Gilbert repeated, quieter this time. Their coffee cups rolled and scatered as he straddled Matthew and cradled his face.

"You're full of shit," Matthew laughed, but it was sad and broken. And _he_ was sad and broken… But he was also radiant and beautiful and wonderful. Gilbert wished that Matthew could see himself from his perspective.

He traced his jawline, his cheekbones, his lips… He bent low and kissed him. Matthew kissed back.

"Sometimes," he admitted between kisses, "but not this time."

"You're lying."

"Not to you, never to you."

Gilbert kissed along his collarbone, his chest, and he was warmer than the coffee had been. They had been friends for seven years, and best friends for five of those, and he knew Matthew inside and out; he knew his faults and his weaknesses, and he loved him in spite of those limitations. Because of them.

And he loved him for his strengths, for his courage.

Matthew cried when he thought no one was watching, and Gilbert cried for him. Matthew staggered and stumbled and slipped, and Gilbert picked him up. He brushed him off. Matthew lingered in front of the mirror, weighing his worth, and Gilbert waited.

He would wait forever.

Gilbert would murmur "I love you, I love you, _I love you_" until Matthew believed him. He would mention it over coffee and remind him under the stars; he would scrawl it in cursive and write it in the sand and whisper it against his thighs. He would tell him over and over again until he believed it.

And then he would keep telling him. He would keep showing him.

"I love you, I love you, _I love you!_"


	71. True Love

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'True Love' by P!nk because the line between love and hate is thinner than we would like to believe. Truly. We always seem to hurt the ones we love the most because we know that they will come back again and again… Until they do not._

_This purposefully comes across as borderline abusive because Prussia wants to be dominated but he does not know how to ask. He manipulates Canada instead and takes what he needs. It does not make him a bad person, per se, just... Complicated.  
_

_Honk twice if you want something a little happier next time…_

**True Love**

Canada had tried to walk away from the fight. He really, really had. That should count for something. But Prussia knew him, knew just which buttons to press, and knew how long to hold them down until he snapped.

He hissed and turned on his heel, pushing Prussia against the wall and pinning his hands above his head. The framed photographs rattled; pictures of them on dates, vacations, and that one embarrassing photograph that Prussia refused to take down.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

Prussia snarled and arched underneath him, pressing their hips together and wrapping one of his legs around Canada. He was excited.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's play," he licked at his throat, "C'mon, Matthew."

Canada knew what he wanted. He wanted to fight, he wanted to punch and kick and bite. He wanted Canada to tug on his hair and paint bruises over his thighs and backside. For whatever reason, Prussia wanted it rough and he would keep calling him names until he gave in.

Prussia had never been the best at communicating his wants or desires, so he pushed and prodded and bullied until he found what he needed.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he hurt Canada in the process.

"For the love of… Why can't you just _ask_, you complete and utter asshole? Are you just going to stand there and call me names until _you_ get what _you_ want? That's not _fair_!"

"Give it to me," Prussia shivered. "Tell me what you really think."

"You're sick, Gilbert. Twisted…" Canada curled his lips in disgust and slammed him against the wall again. "You need help."

"Yes, yes, give it to me." Prussia threw his head back and stared at Canada with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. He was too far gone, lost in sensation.

"Screw you," he growled.

"Yes, please."

The frustrating bit was that Canada did not even mind playing rough, not at all. He just wished that Prussia would _ask_ instead of hurling insults at him until he gave in. Prussia chose the words that he knew would hurt him the most and he used them without reservation:

"_You're a coward", "you're useless", "no one would notice if you disappeared…"_

"_No one can even see you..."_

"_You don't exist…"_

If Canada wanted, he could do the same. He knew how to break Prussia in half and step on the pieces. He knew his fears, his doubts, and his worst nightmares. He knew him inside and out. If he wanted to, he could hurt him.

But he did not want to.

"Stop being such an insufferable dick."

"No," Prussia bucked beneath him and Canada sucked in a breath. "Give it to me."

"_Shiiit…_"

Prussia tugged him down and fisted handfuls of his sweater. He bit him.

At the end of the day, Canada would give him what he wanted. He would bend him over and wrap his hands around his neck. He hated him, he adored him… It was true love. It had to be; nothing else could break his heart like this, and no one else could break it quite like Prussia.

"Yes, yes, yes. Please, more, yes. Please."

Canada smirked.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you."

"_Fuck_, yes, Matthew… Please! Matthew…"

He kissed him and slipped his tongue into his mouth. He chewed on his lips, brutal and violent. There would be time for apologies later.

If this was what Prussia needed, well… Canada would give it to him. Even if it broke his heart.

He scratched patterns over his ribcage and tweaked his nipples; he pinched and pulled and left bruises in his wake. He marked Prussia. He claimed him.

He hurt him.

And when it was over, when Prussia was calm and satisfied and faintly embarrassed, Canada cradled him against his chest and kissed him gently, softly. He traced the welts and contusions with his fingertips. He admired the contrast.

" 'm sorry," Prussia mumbled into the crook of his arm. The back of his neck and ears were vibrant and warm.

"… Why?" Canada prompted, even though he knew _why._ He just wanted to hear him say it.

"Uh, for what I said, I guess... That wasn't very… Nice."

"No, it wasn't."

" 'm sorry."

"I know. Just… Just _ask_ next time, okay?"

"I'll, uhm, try to remember that."

"Good."

It was quiet for a moment before Prussia turned in his arms and kissed the tip of his nose. He laughed and nuzzled against him.

"I love you, Matthew. I really do. _Thank you_."

Canada sighed and tucked a pale wisp of hair behind his burning ears.

"I love you too."

Prussia could break his heart a thousand times… As long as he stitched it back together one more time.


	72. Jar of Hearts

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Jar of Hearts' by Christina Perri. It's not happy, per se, but it is not sad either… Yet. This chapter is strange in that I wrote their first meeting whilst thinking about the end of their relationship. I wrote the beginning but this song would colour the end._

_They're both a little more jaded here, but they would be under the circumstances. I feel like this takes place in 1930 or earlier.  
_

**Jar of Hearts**

Matthew balanced on the windowsill and shifted his weight back and forth. The metal railing cut into his bare feet, sharp and cold. He squinted.

It looked easy enough.

He traced the wooden frame with his fingertips and sighed. His breath frosted the windowpane. He slipped a slender piece of wire through the gap in the window and lifted the latch, carefully, quietly. Effortlessly. He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and pushed it open.

Too easy.

He stepped inside with a small smile. These business tycoons were all the same, these entrepreneurs… Old money, new money; it did not matter. They thought that they knew everything, that they had _seen_ everything, but they never saw him coming. No one ever did. He was a ghost.

He padded across the study to an excessively large painting, hideous and obviously set on hinges. His bare feet were silent, or nearly, on the marble flooring.

He swung the painting open and examined the combination lock underneath. He was surprised. The safe was an older model, a louder model. He had expected more of a challenge. It really was too easy.

He leaned forward and pressed his ear against the safe as he twisted the dial. He could hear the cylinders catch and scrape against each other. It took him less than ten minutes to run through twenty four possible combinations, once he had figured out which numbers were sticking.

The safe clicked open. He smirked.

"Well, well, well," someone clapped behind him, "I _am _impressed."

Matthew tensed up. Fuck. He turned slowly on his heels to find a pale, pale man wearing a dark, dark suit. He was striking in the moonlight.

"I was told that you were the best, of course, but I needed to see it to believe it. I'm afraid that I rigged this whole thing, see? Sorry about that." The man meandered across the study, unhurried and unworried, and settled into a leather armchair. He poured two tumblers of… Whiskey, maybe? And offered one to Matthew. "Come on, sit down."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. He glanced at the safe, at the open window, and tried to gauge the distance. He could probably make it…

"Now, now, stop that. You'd never make it, and even if you did, you would break your legs. We're four stories up, you know," he scoffed. "Besides, I'm not going to hurt you. Sit down."

Matthew frowned at the man, feeling chastised. Damn it.

He took three steps forward.

"You might have called the police," he pointed out. "You had more than enough time, really."

"Ah, so you _can _talk. Good. That'll make this easier." He took a sip from his own glass and jounced the other one. "And, yes, I could have. But I didn't."

He took another two steps.

"And why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't," he chuckled. "I'm not a very nice man."

One more step. Matthew closed the distance between them and reached for the proffered tumbler. His fingers curled around the glass and he cradled it close to his chest.

"At least you're honest."

The man studied him with the detached air of someone running numbers, weighing risks.

He stared him down and Matthew stared back without blinking. He was an attractive man, from what he could see in the darkened room, with broad shoulders and long legs. He had a ready smile. Empty eyes.

Matthew liked him immediately.

"I want you, Matthew," he whispered, and if Matthew was surprised that he knew his name, well, he tried not to show it. "I want you to work for me."

"You know that I'm a thief, right?"

"And a good one at that," he nodded.

Matthew circled him and carefully considered the offer. He usually worked alone, if he could help it. The last time he had had a partner… It had been messy. Awkward, complicated, nasty…

Despite that, he was intrigued.

"What's in it for me?"

"A forty/sixty take."

Matthew snorted.

"Fat chance."

The man grinned and clicked their glasses together in camaraderie. Matthew must have passed some sort of test. Great.

"A fifty/fifty take, then. _My_ infinite resources and _your_ skills, just think about it. We could rob this town blind."

And they could... They really could.

He was more than intrigued.

"Where do I sign?"

The man leaned back in his armchair and kicked his feet up onto the ottoman. He smirked and gestured behind him.

"In the safe."

Matthew started laughing.

"Of course."


	73. Counting Stars

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Counting Stars' by One Republic, which is wonderful 'stuck in traffic' music. Cheers! (The emotions behind this piece might not make as much sense to you if you are seventeen, but if you are twenty three or older… Well, it might hit a little closer to home.)_

**Counting Stars**

Gilbert wrapped his arms around Matthew and tucked him under his chin. He leaned back against a pile of cardboard boxes, tangled in flickering lights and tinsel and ornaments.

He sucked on his cigarette and admired their handiwork.

"We make a _mean_ Christmas Tree," he chuckled under his breath. Matthew swatted at the cigarette smoke and knocked back an open bottle of rum before passing it to Gilbert. He held it for him as he sipped.

"Well, we made do, anyway," Matthew hummed.

"We always do."

They had been evicted from their previous apartment three days before Christmas and they had needed to move from one terrible apartment to another. The walls were cracked, the tiles were warped and peeling, but it was cheap. And that was what mattered, really.

As long as they had each other, they could handle the weight of the world. They could handle anything.

He nuzzled his blonde curls and sighed. They were sitting in the dark, washed in the moonlight pouring in through the open window and the glow of their makeshift Christmas Tree. It was freezing, and he could just see the holes in their clothes and the dirt under their fingernails. It was a little rough, living life on the edges of society and propriety, but it suited them. They looked good doing it.

He took another drag of his cigarette and admired the way it dangled between his fingertips. Very bohemian. Gilbert pressed a kiss to the back of his neck and blew the smoke against the freckles there. He grinned when Matthew coughed.

"Keep it to yourself, vagabond."

"You like it," Gilbert cackled as he worried his cigarette.

"Sure, that's why I'm coughing. Obviously. Here, take another sip."

Matthew held up the bottle again and coaxed Gilbert to swallow. He licked the rim instead. Just to be contrary. Matthew frowned at him, but it was half hearted at best.

"You're such a child," he sighed as he wiped the rim with the sleeve of his worn sweater. "I don't know why I put up with you."

Gilbert laughed and pressed his hips against his ass, drawing attention to his prominent erection. Matthew rolled his eyes even as he pushed back.

"Oh, right. Now I remember."

Gilbert stubbed his cigarette on the floorboards regardless of their lease agreement. He nipped at his earlobe and slipped a hand underneath his sweater, tracing his hipbones and circling his bellybutton. He trailed his fingers up and down his ribcage.

He watched the stars turn outside their window, burning brilliant and bright in the cold, and took his time. They were in no rush, and he would not want to rush this anyway. He lapped up the small moans and groans as Matthew squirmed in his arms.

He turned around in his lap and kissed Gilbert. He rubbed their noses together.

Matthew rubbed their erections together too, playful and teasing, and it was his turn to bite back a whine. He let his hands slide to his backside and pulled him even closer. They breathed the same air and thought the same thoughts. They were perfectly synchronised.

Gilbert smiled against his lips. This would be their fifth Christmas together and, to be honest, each one had been worse than the one before it. Somehow, though, they were happy. He still woke up beside Matthew on Christmas morning and that made the headaches and heartache worth it.

Hell, they were even getting good at it.

It was strange that everything 'wrong' made him feel so 'right'. Sex and drugs and rock'n'roll. They had started out so nice and normal and they had fallen so far, so fast. Their educations and degrees gathered dust in the waterstained shoebox stuffed under their bed… But they were happy, in their own way, with nothing. There was a sense of freedom in poverty.

He cradled Matthew closer, closer, closer and deepened the kiss.

As long as he continued to wake up next to Matthew, he could endure anything. He would endure everything. As long as they continued scrabbling and stumbling through life together; as long as they continued making mistakes and bad decisions and lopsided Christmas Trees. Together.

He did not need to count dollars as long as he could count the stars.

As long as he could count them with Matthew.


	74. The Monster

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'The Monster' by Eminem, featuring Rihanna. I would love to follow this up with a couple of one shots, as Matthew grows up and continues to talk to the monster under his bed. But I love writing little kids too, so…_

**The Monster**

Matthew sucked in a breath and pulled the blankets over his head as the shadows painted grasping hands and gnashing teeth across the wallpaper of his bedroom. He was scared. And even though his father said that he had imagined it, even though his brother teased him… He was still scared of the monster under his bed.

He wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked back and forth, covering his ears and whimpering. He tried to make himself as small as possible. He trembled, his teeth chattering, as he tried to soothe his nerves.

He could hear it breathing underneath him, gasping and growling. He could hear the click, the scrape of claws on his floorboards…

And then he sneezed.

"Gesundheit!"

Matthew squeaked and dove under his pillows with his backside in the air and his feet out in the open. He squealed when someone, _something_, tugged on his left foot.

"Let go, let go, let go..." He chanted, high pitched and desperate. He flinched when the monster chuckled.

"Whoa! Whoa! Shit! Okay, okay, chill out. I'm not going to hurt you." There was a long pause. "… Probably."

Matthew rolled over and peeked over the pile of blankets. He tried to tuck his feet underneath him but the monster refused to let go.

And it was a monster. It almost looked human, but it was too pale, too stark. It was long and warped and it seemed to bend at all the wrong places, in all the wrong directions. Its hands were large and stretched and each finger ended in sharp, bloodied claws but, somehow, none of them pierced his foot. It would have been so easy too… It would have been so easy to push down, push in… Rip, tear, cleave…

Its hair was a little mangled, knotted, but it was the colour of snow. Its eyes were wide and staring, as if it had seen too much, too fast. They were red, red, red.

Matthew was terrified.

"Please don't eat me, Mister Monster. I'll be good, I promise. I will."

The monster blinked at him, slowly, and tightened its grasp on his foot. It laughed.

"Is _that_ what they're telling you nowadays?"

"I… What?"

"That's ridiculous. Why would I want to eat you? You're what, eight years old?"

"… Eight and a half," Matthew mumbled, petulant. He was almost nine years old, thank you very much.

"Exactly. Why the fuck would I want to eat you? You're all skin and bones. 'Sides, I'd be out of a job."

It was his turn to blink. He lowered his blankets in increments.

"Then, what do you want?"

"Huh?" The monster examined its claws in feigned disinterest. It raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, I mean, why are you here?"

The monster laughed and it sounded like a car accident, all twisting metal and scoured pavement.

"I live here," it said plainly. Matthew frowned.

"But_ I_ live here!"

He pushed his blankets down in indignation and scrambled over them. The monster continued to squeeze his foot, surprisingly gentle. Did it think he would run away if it let go of his foot? Could he even outrun a monster?

"Yeah, and so do I. Duh."

Matthew searched the sum of his eight and a half year old faculties for an answer but he simply did not understand. Not at all. None of the _other_ children on the playground had a monster under _their_ beds. Well, except for Feliciano, maybe, but he did not count. He was strange. He claimed that there was a monster hiding in his closet but _everyone_ knew that he was exage… Exagger… That he was lying.

"I don't understand," he said as much. The monster sighed in exasperation.

"You live there," it pointed to him, on top of the bed, before pointing underneath it, "and I live here."

"But why?"

"You ask a lot of fucking questions, don't you?" The monster snorted and smoothed its tangled mane. "I'm supposed to look after you, alright? So I live under your bed."

Matthew pursed his lips, feeling a bit bolder with each passing moment. Perhaps the monster was not as frightening as he had first thought. Sure, it _looked_ scary, but it did not_ act_ scary. In fact, the monster was sort of… Nice. Even if it said a lot of bad words.

"So, you're like a… Guardian Angel, then?"

The monster sputtered in embarrassment and it was almost funny.

"No! I'm nothing like that!"

Matthew crossed his arms over his chest and stared pointedly at the monster.

"But you're supposed to look after me, right…?" He sounded out each syllable, sarcastic and precocious, as if he were talking to someone particularly slow. Or his brother.

"Yeah."

"And you're supposed to keep me safe, right? And you even promised not to eat me!"

"… I guess," the monster admitted grudgingly.

"Then you must be a Guardian Angel!"

The monster growled and tugged on his foot, pulled on his toes. Matthew waited for it to hurt him, to throw a tantrum, but it continued to be surprisingly gentle. He must have been right, then!

"Keep your stupid theories to yourself, Matthew," the monster muttered sheepishly, "or I really will eat you."

"Nuh uh. I don't think you will. You said that you wouldn't…" He trailed off. "How did you know my name? That's not fair!"

The monster laughed again, that same horrible squealing, squelching sound.

"I wouldn't be very good at my job if I did not even know your name."

Matthew paused and turned the statement over in his mind. Yes. Of course. It only made sense. But… If it knew his name, then… Did that mean that it had a name too? He had never really stopped to think about it but monsters had to come from somewhere, right? They might even have families… Their mothers must have given them a name, an actual name, when they were born.

His own mother had died a couple of hours after he and his brother were born, but she had still had time to name them. Matthew and Alfred.

He thought they were good names.

"… Do you have a name?"

The monster opened its mouth and closed it again, taken aback, as if no one had ever asked before. Maybe no one ever had. Matthew wondered how many other children the monster had watched over before him. Had none of them thought to ask? Ever?

Or had they just been too scared to ask?

Matthew flushed with shame. He had been frightened too. And if he had never spoken to the monster, he still would be. He would have never known how nice the monster was… He would have never known that he had his very own Guardian Angel.

"… I do. My name is Gilbert." The monster, no, Gilbert, tucked a tangled strand of hair behind his pointed ear and Matthew wondered if he always played with his mane when he was feeling nervous or shy. He hoped that he would have a chance to find out.

He grinned and stretched out his hand.

"Hello Gilbert, my name is Matthew," he said brightly. His father had always told him that first impressions were very, very important but that second impressions could be just as powerful. He wanted to make it up to Gilbert. He wanted to prove that he would not run away.

He wanted to be friends.

Gilbert stared at his hand for a couple of minutes with a scrunched expression before carefully letting go of his foot and deliberately reaching for his hand instead. His clawed hand was easily four, five sizes bigger than his own.

Matthew admired the contrast.

"… Hello, Matthew. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Gilbert looked close to tears. Matthew smiled.

They talked all night.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_It's been a while since I've added an author's note to the bottom of an Inspired chapter, hasn't it? I just wanted to point out that Matthew uses to the pronoun 'it' for Gilbert until he stops to think that the monster under his bed might actually have an identity. Once he knows his name, he starts referring to Gilbert as 'he'._

… _I like writing little kids… But then again, you already knew that. _

_I'm flying over the holidays but I should pop in soon with some one shots and a gift for Maplevogel. That might be closer to New Years though… Luckily, she is very patient! I'm trying complete all of my holiday preparations and move in the next couple of days, so… Oh, and I have to do it all from another country, depending on where I am assigned. Greeeat…_

_But happy holidays from the bottom of my heart! Whether I speak to you often, rarely, or never… You have touched me somehow, some way, and I am thinking about you this holiday season. Thank you for another brilliant year!_

_(Has it really been that long? Ewww…)_


	75. When I Said Goodbye

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'When I Said Goodbye' by Mayer Hawthorne_.

**When I Said Goodbye**

Prussia watched the blonde nation walk past, head down and cautious. He avoided eye contact, and Prussia could not blame him; not after what he had said. Not after what he had done.

The two of them had been friends for a time, and then best friends. And then friends with benefits.

Canada had fallen in love with him and he… Well, he had not felt the same way.

Prussia had pushed him, blaming him for ruining something good, and simple, and _easy_. Canada just _had_ to factor love into the equation. He just _had_ to complicate things! It was his fault! His!

Prussia threw a tantrum, and when he was done, Canada looked at him. He just looked at him and shook his head.

And he left without another word.

It felt like he had been punched in the stomach, but Prussia tried to hold onto the belief that he was in the right, that Canada had somehow _betrayed_ him by bringing _feelings_ into their relationship. Canada avoided him and he ignored him in return.

At least he tried to. It was not working very well.

Prussia glanced down at the file in his hands. The smear of black and red across the page meant nothing to him; he could not concentrate. His thoughts were caught up and tangled.

He sighed and handed the file to a passing aide.

The truth was… He_ was_ in love with Canada. He had not known it at the time, but he was, and he had taken it for granted. It seemed so obvious now.

God, he was such an idiot.

It had been impossible to ignore the chasm in his life once Canada walked out. He _ached_ for him. He kept picking up the telephone to tell him a joke, only to remember on the first ring and hang up with a curse. When he was out shopping, Prussia found himself buying the things Canada liked or his favourite treats. He would turn to nudge him in the ribs and tease him, and find himself alone. Sad and alone.

And after dark, when it was just him and his hand, Prussia would pant his name between strokes.

He missed their friendship, and he missed the sex, but most of all he missed Canada. He felt torn up inside.

Prussia knew that he was in love with Canada, there was no other explanation, and the realization floored him. Love was an affliction that would make him weak and foolish… It would make him _want_, and _need_, and_ feel._ It would ruin him.

But he would not have it any other way…

Not if he could have Canada back.

Prussia watched the other nation turn down the corridor and weighed his options. He knew what he wanted, finally… But should he force his feelings on Canada? After what he had said, and done? Did he even have that right anymore?

Did he even care?

Prussia growled under his breath and tore after Canada. He did not care. He was selfish, and desperate. His life felt empty without Canada and he would do anything to get him back.

He came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder roughly, clawing at his suit. He threw Canada against the wall. Canada blinked and opened his mouth in surprise.

And then his face twisted into a scowl and he hauled back to punch Prussia in the nose.

Prussia went sprawling with a growl, knees up around his ears, and fidgeted with his nose. It was broken, definitely broken. He smiled through the blood.

He had deserved that.

"Goth, I mithed you." His voice was thick and muffled behind his hand. His words slurred together. Whatever. Touching reunions had never been his forte.

Canada blew on his knuckles and stared down at him.

"What do you want, Beilschmidt?"

He lowered his hand and let the blood cascade down his chin and drip onto his coat. The other nations gave them wide berth and sidelong glances as they walked past. He did not even notice. As far as he was concerned, they were alone in the world.

"I wan'ed to apolo'ize. I wath wron'."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"You usually are."

Prussia ginned and licked his lips. God, he had missed his snide remarks, and sarcasm, and twisted sense of humour.

"True. But I'm thorry. I didn' mean it."

"The part where you threw a tantrum," Canada crouched down to his level with a sigh and checked his nose. His hands were cold. "Or the part where you screamed at me? Ooh, or maybe the part where you kicked me out?"

"All of it…?"

He chuckled lightly under his breath. He looked tired. Prussia wondered if their time apart had been as hard on Canada as it had been for him. Probably. They had always been better together.

He pushed his nose back into place and held him still as it healed supernaturally fast. Prussia would have undoubtedly let it heal crooked... Canada traced his fingers down the bridge of his nose after it clicked into place, over his cheekbones, across his lips. He looked at him softly.

"You're an idiot," he muttered affectionately. "I should have known you would freak out."

"Can you forgive me?"

"Depends. Are you going to buy me flowers?"

Prussia laughed in relief. It was not a '_yes_' but it was not a '_no_' either. It was not an '_I never want to see you again, asshole!_'. He could work with that.

"Sooo many flowers."

He snorted and tucked a wayward curl behind his ear with shaking fingers. Prussia watched the motion with hungry eyes. It was strange how the little things suddenly seemed so important.

"Then we'll see..." He smiled at him sweetly but his knuckles were still red. "Walk me to my car?"

Prussia scrambled to his feet and held out his bloodied hand. Canada took it anyway. He helped him up and marvelled at how well their hands fit together, how their scars complemented each other, how their fingers automatically interlocked... They were made for one another.

He had just been too blind to see it.

"Absolutely."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

"_I am going to get you so many lizards!" - Futurama_

_I bet that you thought this would be horribly depressing when you saw the title. Prussia might be in the dog house for awhile but I think it will work out. They'll make it work. (Also, sometimes you just need to knock a b*tch out.) _


	76. Bring Me To Life

_I was depressed, so I decided to share the sadness. So sorry. This chapter was inspired by the song 'Bring Me To Life' by Evanescence._

**Bring Me To Life**

Matthew curled up on the cracked cement and tried to block out the screaming with frantic hands.

It was not working.

The single fixture above him rocked back and forth in perpetual motion, casting shadows and highlighting the darkened corners of his nine by nine prison. There was a bucket of piss in one corner and his untouched meal in another. Other than that, there was nothing. Just him. And the screaming.

He clawed at his ears in desperation. His neighbour was growing hoarse, gasping for breath and begging for death, and that meant it would be his turn soon… Too soon. Much too soon.

Matthew sobbed and curled tighter around himself.

* * *

Matthew never opened his eyes until _they _were gone. Somehow, it was easier to endure if he did not have to watch the needles and scalpels slide into his skin. The flames. The clamps and staples and sutures. Somehow, it was easier.

Matthew looked down at himself and traced his newest scars; a cut along his hipbone, a patch of blistering skin on his thigh, and a stitched incision over his sternum. The skin was puckering and weeping where the stitches met.

He bit his lip. It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. He touched the blisters on his leg with tender fingers and gasped at the sensation.

It hurt.

"Oh god…" He hiccupped.

"No such thing."

Matthew scooted to the furthest corner of his prison and pressed his ear against the cement. There was a crack as long as his forearm.

And on the other side of that crack was his one salvation.

"Gilbert?"

"Of course it's me, dumbass. Who else would it be?" Gilbert drawled. His voice was still hoarse from his earlier encounter.

"How bad is it?"

"Let's see…" He trailed off, marking his injuries. "The soles of my feet are fried. Strip of skin missing. Stitches across my stomach…"

"Ouch."

"Understatement," Gilbert laughed. "You?"

"Burns on my thigh. Open cut on my hip. Stitches a little higher, and bleeding."

"Gross."

"Mmhmm."

"Did they take anything this time?"

"I don't think so. You?"

"I think they took my appendix. At least, I hope it was my appendix. I blacked out."

"Small miracles."

"I told you," he snorted, "there is no such thing as 'god'. Not here."

Matthew outlined the crack in the cement with trembling fingertips and an aching desire to argue. He could not give up hope. It was all he had left.

But he kept quiet and pretended that he could not hear Gilbert crying.

* * *

Matthew screwed his eyes shut when they came back, running precise and practical fingers over his wounds. An impassive man in a gasmask asked him questions. He answered.

It was easier to answer them. And less painful.

The man never referred to him by name, he never used identifiers or pronouns. He called Matthew 'The Subject', both to the other scientists and to his face. It was cruel in a way, but not half as cruel as using his name would be.

Gilbert was the only one who said his name in this place.

He knew that Gilbert was sitting on the other side, listening in and waiting his turn. Praying under his breath. Gilbert refused to pray to god, he had been here too long for that, but he kept praying to someone, anyone.

One of the scientists slipped a scalpel under his skin and he moaned. It hurt. He told them so.

But they did not care.

* * *

"Where do you think we are?" Matthew asked a couple of hours later. At least, he thought that it had been a couple of hours. It might have been a couple of days.

"Does it matter?" Gilbert snorted. They had cut along his calves and braided them back together, even though Gilbert had begged and pleaded. Matthew had begged too.

Anything to stop the screaming.

"I guess not," Matthew hummed, circling his bellybutton and the wires there. "What do you think they want?"

Gilbert muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'whatever we'll fucking give them'. He sounded broken. Matthew pressed his hand to the cement and knew that he would give anything, anything, if only they would let Gilbert go.

He was in love with him, in love with a man he had never seen before. In love with a man he had never touched. He was in love with the sound of his voice, and his sense of humour, and those odd moments of aching openness.

Gilbert had been here before him, and he would probably survive him, but in the meantime, Matthew was in love with him.

He was in love with his salvation. His saving grace.

* * *

Matthew bit down on his knuckles and tried to swallow his screams. He did not want to worry Gilbert, he was sure that he was eavesdropping, but little sounds and sobs slipped past his lips and coloured the air. Someone was cutting along his ribcage, his stomach, his hipbones; slicing skin from muscle, muscle from bone.

He kept his eyes closed and focused on breathing in and out. In and out. He felt numb and empty inside, but his skin was burning.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Oh god.

They loomed over him, distant and detached, and he hated them. He hated the men who stood around and watched more than he hated the scientist cutting him open. He hated them, he hated them, he hated them…

It was stifling.

Matthew had never hated anyone before. He had never thought that he had it in him. It felt like a vice on his heart; it dripped down his throat and coated his lungs and tried to drown him. It was awful; a throbbing nothingness that somehow still meant everything.

_And it was stifling_.

* * *

"How bad?" Gilbert asked from the other side of the crack. His voice was slow and sluggish and Matthew wondered if they had drugged him. He hoped that they had.

"Open from my ribcage to my hipbone. Left side. Inside of my thighs too. Back of my knee." He listed the injuries like he used to list groceries. Humdrum. An everyday occurrence.

He wondered when he had become so disimpassioned. He wondered when he had stopped caring.

He still prayed, sure, but he wondered when he had stopped _meaning _it.

Disillusioned… Disenchanted… Disheartened… He was broken and scarred, inside and out.

"Take anything?"

"Yeah, but I'm not sure what it was. Red and squishy."

"Ewww…"

Matthew laughed and savoured the warm bloom of affection. It felt nice.

"You?"

"Not sure yet. I'm waiting for the drugs to wear off. I can't feel my fingers."

"Hmm."

"Last time they took one of my eyes."

"… I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"But I am."

Gilbert snorted.

"I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. I think I'm in love with you."

Gilbert coughed and spluttered. Matthew patiently waited for him to sort through his emotions.

He had not meant to spring it on him like that, without lead up or segue, but there it was. He just had to tell him. He felt better now that it was out in the open.

"Matthew…"

"I know."

"We've never even…"

"I know."

"And this place…"

"I know."

Gilbert trailed off again. Matthew wished that he could hold his hand, that he could tell him that everything would be alright, but he could not and he would not. He would not lie.

* * *

"Are you really in love with me?!" Gilbert shouted a week later as the men worked him over. Matthew might have laughed if he had not been rocking back and forth, holding his breath. "Like, really, really?"

He curled up near the crack and wrapped his arms around his legs.

"Really, really."

"And you're sure?"

"Pretty sure."

He would never know what the scientists thought of their conversation but he knew that they were in there with him; he could hear the saw whirring.

Gilbert shrieked, panting.

"Then you should probably know that I'm in love with you too!" He bellowed between broken sobs. Matthew actually smiled, thin and wobbly.

"Really?"

"Really, really."

* * *

Matthew and Gilbert starting 'dating' after that, if it could be called that, and spent long hours whispering endearments through the crack in the wall, laughing, and comparing injuries. It was nice. He was fully aware that romance had worked differently in the outside world, but the details grew fuzzier with each passing day, week, month. He forgot what it felt like to be normal.

He used to have a career, he thought, and a pet friendly apartment. He used to have a girlfriend.

Now he had Gilbert, and that was okay too. Better than okay.

It was great.

* * *

"What is this supposed to be?"

"What?"

"The… Does this qualify as food? I can't tell anymore."

Matthew giggled lightly and reached for the crude plate of gruel they had slipped under his door. It was pale and watery. It smelt like dirty dishrags.

"I don't think so."

"Should we eat it?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to eat it anyway."

"Ugh. Your stomach must be stronger than mine."

"I thought they removed your stomach last week," Matthew snorted affectionately.

"…Is that what that was?"

* * *

Matthew struggled to focus on the soothing sound of Gilbert's voice as they bent over him, flayed and pulled open. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt… He could hear the strain in his vowels, in his clipped consonants, as he tried to distract him. He talked about the nonexistent weather, the nonexistent football game… He made it up as he went along, desperate and worried.

Matthew wanted to reach out and hold his hand. He wanted to tell him that it was okay.

It hurt because he knew that he would never be able to.

* * *

"What would you say if I asked you to marry me?"

"I would say that you've finally lost it."

"Har-dee-har-har. I mean it, Matthew. I want to marry you."

Matthew looked up from where he was tracing the scars on his bare legs. He scrambled over to the wall.

"What?! Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"No, I mean… Like… Really?"

"Really, really."

He grinned and scooted closer.

"Can we have a big wedding?"

"The biggest."

"And our honeymoon?"

"Portugal and Spain. We'll backpack across Europe."

He wondered if it was strange that they played 'make believe' so often but he supposed that it was the natural progression of things. After all, they had been imprisoned for a year… Two years… A lifetime…

Reality was bleak and painful. 'Make believe' was easier.

"And you'll buy me a ring?"

"The nicest one money can buy. Come on, Matthew. What do you say?" He paused for effect. "Will you marry me?"

Matthew smacked the cement twice and laughed.

"Of course I will!"

* * *

Less than a week later, Gilbert stopped answering his cries.

And Matthew stopped believing in god.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Is it more or less depressing if Gilbert was a figment of his addled mind? Hmm…_


	77. That's Not My Name

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'That's Not My Name' by The Ting Tings. It was requested by a couple of people, for obvious reasons, but I seem to have misplaced their names. If you requested this song, in a review or 'ask' or personal message, please raise your hand and I'll change the shout out. My bad. I'm rather surprised it took me so long to get around to this one. _

_Edit: TacoBunneh has stepped forward! All hail TacoBunneh! (I know that there were other requests for this song, so please send up a flag!)_

**That's Not My Name**

"_Hey, you."_

"_Yeah, you, in the corner."_

"_Hey, hey, America! Come here!"_

Canada flinched and set his briefcase down a little harder than strictly necessary. He flopped into his seat and ground his teeth in irritation, gnawing on his bottom lip in the process. It was ridiculous, of course. Utterly ridiculous. Sure, he looked like his brother, or maybe America looked like him, but that was no excuse after one hundred and fifty years. Or more. Hell, some of the nations had known them since 1000AD. Ridiculous.

He snapped open the briefcase and threw a pile of file folders onto the conference table. He pulled out a pen and tried not to break it in half. Ugh.

"Hey, America, what do you think…?"

Canada tightened his grip on this pen and felt it crack between his fingers. Fuck.

"My name…" He pushed the words through his clenched teeth. "My _name_ is _Canada_."

The nation blinked and studied him closer, swooping into his personal space.

"Huh. So it is. Never mind, then."

They walked away without a backwards glance and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming. He was not asking for the moon and the stars, really. He just wanted a bit of respect, common courtesy and acknowledgment. Was that so much to ask? Evidently, it was.

He had even tried wearing name tags in the past, or his flag. It never seemed to help.

"_America, I looked over that proposition you sent me and…"_

"_America, I wanted to talk to you about…"_

"_America, America, America…"_

He slammed his pen down into the table, imbedding the tip and then some into the varnished wood. The metal and plastic shattered in his grip, digging into his palm and drawing blood. It dripped onto the table as he sucked in short, controlled breaths.

His eyes stung with tears of frustration.

"Uh… Canada, you're kind of, uh, bleeding. Like, all over the place."

"My _name_," he snarled, "is not…! Wait, what?!"

"You're bleeding. Everywhere."

"No, before that!"

"Erhm…"

"Say my name!"

"… Canada?" Prussia sat down beside him and pried his fingers from the splintered pen. His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone so seemingly coarse and crass. He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright? Oh, man, look at this. You fucking _wrecked_ it. Hardcore."

He shifted his palm and plucked at the pieces of plastic with blunt, calloused fingertips.

"… You know my name," Canada whispered in awe, flinching as he pulled out a particularly sharp piece. Ouch. Prussia glanced up as he grasped another fragment and tugged.

"Uh, yeah. Duh."

"How…? Since when…?"

"Since you were a motherfucking colony, asshole. What do you mean 'since when'? I used to babysit you. Dicknuts."

"No, I mean… Really?" He stopped, started, and stopped again. He shook his head. His blonde curls bounced with the motion. "No, wait, it's just that no one else can remember my name. And they, uh, they keep confusing me with my brother. All the time."

"Well, everyone else is an idiot. Obviously."

He removed the last piece with a slap and a cackle and held it up for Canada to see, jagged and splintered. His palm stitched itself back together.

"But not you…"

"Not me."

Prussia cradled his hand in his own and raised it to his lips. He kissed his palm and wiggled his eyebrows. Canada blushed.

Then he dragged his tongue through the blood and he blushed harder.

"I, erhm, ah… That's sort of, ah, gross…" He mumbled, looking anywhere but at Prussia. He felt the other nation smile, a slow stretch of lips and scrape of teeth against his palm. There was something dangerous about him, true, but there was also something… Alluring…

He was attractive, in a gaunt, feral way, and almost charming. And the bastard knew it too.

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Well, we have meetings until…"

"After the conference," he interrupted him with a soft nip.

"I was just going to… I'm not… It's not…"

"You should go out with me. Tonight. Just you and me."

"Like, on a…"

"Yeah, a date. I'm asking you out on a date. Go out with me."

Canada blinked, dumbfounded.

"But I've never even…"

"Look, you're lonely; I'm lon… Available. I'm available. So let's go out. I'll show you a good time; I'll show you a _great_ time. I'll make you laugh. So, no more tears, okay?" He reached forward with his free hand and brushed at his tears of frustration. Canada hiccupped. "C'mon, say 'yes'."

"… Yes?"

Prussia whooped, kissing his cheek and leaving a smear. He looked relieved.

"He said 'yes'! Canada said 'yes'! Ha!" Prussia shouted, laughing. The other nations stared as Prussia scooped Canada up and started spinning him in circles. His enthusiasm was endearing, and infectious, and it made him giggle. "Take that! Canada said 'yes', he said 'yes'! Fuck yeah!"

"_Who…?"_

But, somehow, it did not seem to matter as much.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Ahaha, they're both idiots. And their conversations are so awkward. 'Nough said. I think that Prussia had been waiting for a chance to talk to Canada, to ask him out, for quite some time. _

_I was supposed to have more to post but I spent the day at the hospital with my sister. She's alright, more or less, but uncomfortable and in pain. We're waiting on test results. Anyway, I'll be able to work on those other projects later this week._


	78. If Love Is A Crime

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'If Love is a Crime' by Anastacia, although it is certainly a different take on the lyrics._

**If Love is a Crime**

Gilbert sighed, leaning forward on his elbows and running his hands through his hair. He stared at the photograph in front of him. His eyebrow twitched.

He had spent seven years on the force as a police officer; fifteen years as an investigator, and he had never seen anything like it:

An attractive 'mug shot'.

He was a young man, caught somewhere between adolescence and adulthood with rounded cheeks and broad shoulders. He looked a little vacant in the photograph. His eyes were wide and haunted. Captivating.

The photograph was printed in shades of grey but the file listed his eye colour as 'purple'. Odd.

His curls licked at his ears and brushed his collarbone. There was the lightest smattering of freckles across his nose, scarcely visible. His mouth was barely open, his lips slightly parted.

But it was his eyes, really. He was drawn to his eyes, over and over again. He had been staring at the photograph for almost half an hour.

"So… He killed someone, then?"

The detective across from him snorted and snubbed his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Try thirteen. We've pinned thirteen murders on this one; twelve men and one dame. And man, was she _gorgeous_. Terrible shame, that."

Gilbert flipped through the file in front of him, passing the burnt remains of the victims and landing on a newspaper clipping. The woman in the clipping was beautiful, in a cloche hat and ribbon. She had big eyes, long eyelashes, and a gentle smile.

"His… Wife?"

"Fiancée."

"Hmm…" Gilbert scanned the article but it was a society piece; littered with name dropping and fundraisers. There was nothing of importance. "Now, why'd he go and do a thing like that?"

The detective shrugged.

"Search me. He refused counsel. That's why we called you in. We've been working him over for days and zip! Nadda! He's fibbing 'bout something, I just know it."

Gilbert glanced up.

"I trust he hasn't been harmed."

"Ah, just a little. He didn't even squeak."

He snapped the folder closed and stood up, pushing the chair in behind him. Cretins. He gestured down the corridor.

"I'll take it from here. Interrogation room five, right?"

"Yeah, that's the…"

The detective trailed off. Gilbert was already gone, stomping past the coffee pot and a dozen startled officers.

* * *

"Well, you've certainly found yourself in a fine mess, Mr. Williams."

The blonde sat back in his chair and looked up at him. He was handcuffed to the thin wooden table in front of him, as if that would do anything; he was easily six feet tall. Taller, even.

"I don't believe we've met, officer."

Gilbert paused in the doorframe, stunned by his unexpected politeness, and gazed into his eyes. Oh man. 'Purple' did not even begin to cover it. They were _violet_, and brighter than he would have thought possible.

Matthew Williams stared back, calm and patient.

"Not an officer," he cleared his throat and closed the door. "Not anymore. Investigator. Do you know why they called me in?"

Matthew smiled, but it was a little tight around the corners.

"Oh dear. I've upset them, haven't I?"

Gilbert chuckled and set a stack of file folders on the table. He crouched down beside Matthew and unlocked his handcuffs.

"That's putting it mildly." Gilbert sank into the chair across from him and kicked his feet up. He threaded his fingers together and settled his hands on his stomach. "But I don't care, really."

Matthew massaged his wrists and studied him.

"Alright…"

"Why'd you do it, Matthew? Thirteen murders. You don't seem the type."

"Twelve," he interrupted him.

"What?"

"Twelve murders. I killed twelve men."

Gilbert reached forward and flicked open the first folder. He scanned the contents.

"So, what, you're just not counting… Miss Yekaterina Braginski? Oh, that's a mouthful."

"No, because I did not kill her."

"But you killed these other men?"

"Yes."

"… Just like that?"

"Yes."

Gilbert frowned.

"You're looking at back-to-back to sentences, here. Where's your solicitor?"

"I refused counsel."

"But your rights clearly state that…"

"I know my rights, Mr…"

"Beilschmidt."

"I know my rights, Mr. Beilschmidt, but I also know 'right' from 'wrong'. What I did was 'wrong'. I accept that."

"But they've got you pinned on thirteen murders, not twelve. Doesn't that matter?"

"Not to her. She's already dead." Matthew placed his hands on the table, palms up. "And I have nothing to hide."

"They'll nail you to the wall." Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, intrigued.

"I'm counting on it."

"So you're not sorry, then? No excuses? Regrets?"

"I'm not sorry I did it; they deserved it. For what they did to her…" He trailed off and his eyes darkened. Suddenly, he seemed the type. "For what they did, they deserved to die. I'm not even sorry I was caught. You've obviously read my file; I set the house on fire and waited twenty minutes before ringing the fire brigade. And then I waited for the police to arrive. I turned myself in."

"After you hacked them into itty, bitty pieces."

"Yes."

Gilbert scratched the back of his head.

"I don't get you, Mr. Williams," he huffed. "I really don't. You'll be hanged for this, y'know."

Matthew lowered his gaze to his open hands. He clenched his fingers and formed a fist before deliberately loosening his grip again. He repeated the process a couple of times.

"… Have you ever been in love, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

He blinked.

"Uhm, no, I've never had the pleasure."

Matthew smiled thinly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Pity. It would look good on you," Matthew supposed under his breath. Gilbert flushed. "But if you've never fallen in love… Well, I'm not sure I can explain it to you. What I did was horrible, but I did it out of love. I did it for Katyusha. It would break her heart if she knew what I did, but I did it for her. And I will never regret that."

Gilbert tucked the folder under his arm and sat up. He leaned forward.

He understood why they had called him in; Matthew said the most unreasonable things in such a reasonable tone of voice. He had outlined every grisly detail, every gruesome step with a certain sincere, composed grace. He had spooked the other detectives.

It was not that he had refused to talk; it was the fact that what he had said seemed so fanciful, so implausible. An honest murderer? They had refused to believe him.

But after meeting Matthew... After speaking with him…

Gilbert believed him.

"You're going to have to come with me."

"I thought you'd never ask. I've been here for days."

"I'm taking you to prison."

"That is the sort of place murderers end up, yes."

"… It's not too late to request a solicitor."

"Thank you, but no."

Gilbert pushed back his chair. For the first time in twenty two years, he felt conflicted. He had always believed in justice, in the law, but he had read the autopsy report. He knew what had happened to Yekaterina Braginski. He had nearly thrown up. And if those men were responsible… Well…

Perhaps they _had_ deserved it.

"You'll stay there until your trial is over, which could take months, maybe years. Even if you plead guilty. And then you'll be hanged."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Gilbert bit his lip. He liked Matthew; he really, really liked him. There was something about his eyes, his mannerisms, his inflection... Under different circumstances, they could have been friends.

"You're a very interesting man."

Matthew extended his hands with a low chuckle, baring his wrists. Gilbert clicked the handcuffs closed, an inch above the previous red welts. He slipped his finger underneath to guarantee circulation.

"I know."

He helped him up, ducking his head and holding out an arm. Matthew settled his left hand on his forearm, tender and warm. He brushed his fingers over his jacket.

"… I'll visit!" Gilbert blurted out, tripping over his own tongue as the words slipped past his lips. He knew that he should take it back, that it was a recipe for disaster, but he felt compelled. Charmed. "I'll visit you in prison."

Matthew gaped, astonished. Then he smiled.

His heart skipped a beat.

"I'd like that."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_This was fun to write. I love writing stories like this. Can you imagine if your first love was a convicted mass murderer? It happens, I guess. Love can find you at any time in your life, under any circumstances. It can find you more than once, too._

_I suppose that this is set in the 1920's or 1930's, depending, and in North America somewhere. It's a little gruesome, maybe. I actually prefer to write Canada as the 'bad guy' when I have the chance; I just think that he'd be better at it. He'd certainly be more disconcerting, anyway._


	79. Thank God I'm Pretty

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Thank God I'm Pretty' by Emelie Autumn, which is a very important song. It just is. It challenges the thought that a woman should be grateful when a man finds her attractive. It was also inspired by a friend of mine who is more comfortable cross dressing but still identifies as their assigned sex. Somehow, instead of being accepted into multiple communities, they are excluded and misunderstood. Which is heartbreaking. _

**Thank God I'm Pretty**

Matthew smoothed the wrinkles of his pinafore with shaking hands and swallowed the tears threatening to cascade down his face. The thunder and lightning rolled through the clouds, heated and dangerous, and it wormed through his petticoats and lace and his bones as he stood in the back lane. It seemed so loud. So all encompassing.

He did not like it. It _hurt_.

His stockings were ruined, his garters were tattered. He was missing a shoe.

He hiccupped, lost and hopeless, and his fists curled in bitterness. Fuck. Fuck, shit, piss. He needed to calm down. Matthew spread his fingers and smoothed the wrinkles. Rinse and repeat.

It was the same story over and over again, the same disappointment; the same unhappily ever after. He always ended up alone, and humiliated, and disgraced.

He bowed his head and his headband slipped forward, pulling on his matted curls. His fingers clenched.

He loosened them again.

He did not understand where he had gone wrong. The evening had started so well, with laughter and compliments and offers to dance. "You're so pretty," they said. They touched his hands, his face. His waist. They plied him with champagne.

And then they had found out he was a man. And then… Well…

It was not as if he had lied to them; they had never asked. No one had thought to ask the most obvious, glaring question. They had just assumed.

And when they found out… When he let it slip…

They reacted. Badly.

Matthew sniffled, tugging on the hem of his torn skirt in desperation. He knew that he did not fit in, that he went against the grain, that he was different. He dressed like a girl but he felt like a boy. It confused people, he knew that. But he had always felt more comfortable in dresses and skirts and ribbons. It made him feel attractive. Pretty. He used to wear his mother's lingerie and high heels, her pearls, around the house.

She had said that it was alright. She had said that no matter what someone wore on the outside, it was what was on the inside that counted.

But maybe she had been wrong too.

"… What are you doing out here? It's starting to rain."

Matthew looked up and the raindrops splashed against his cheekbones, cold and wet. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it _hurt._

"Look, are you okay?"

He tried to focus on the man in front of him, rocking back and forth underneath the flickering streetlight and checking his wristwatch. He was pale and gaunt in his studded collar and leather jacket. It was old fashioned with wide lapels and covered in badges and pins. His jeans were worn with bleached whiskers and his boots were two sizes too big for his feet.

He was going to get blisters, tromping around like that.

"No," Matthew snarled, "no, I am not 'okay'."

The stranger sidled up and looked him over, lingering over his ripped stockings and skinned knees. He whistled, low and worried.

"What happened?"

"I'm a _boy_, that's what happened! I'm a _boy_ and I'm _stupid_ and I'm _wrong_!"

He chuckled, but his laughter was warm and comforting instead of cruel. Matthew blinked, surprised.

"And..? I'm a boy too. Never slowed me down."

"But you _look_ like a boy!" Matthew stomped his foot in exasperation. He did not get it! "I _don't_! I dress like a girl!"

"So?"

"I don't fit in!"

"Trust me," he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, holding it between his lips and breathing through his nose. He knocked the back of his head against the brick wall. "You don't want to fit in."

They were quiet for a couple of minutes as he sucked on the cigarette. The rain continued to colour the pavement and their clothes. They were soaked.

It hurt less.

"… They called me names…" Matthew whispered.

"They were dicks," he snorted. "Obviously. Do you like the way you dress?"

"… Yes."

"Then it doesn't matter. _They don't matter_. C'mon, I'll walk you home."

He snubbed his cigarette on the bricks behind them; half finished, and tucked it behind his ear. He pushed off and held out his hand.

Matthew stared at it. His fingernails were ragged.

"… You don't care?"

"I couldn't care less, really," he shrugged his shoulders. When Matthew continued to hesitate, he sighed and reached forward; threading their fingers together. It was oddly intimate.

Matthew blushed.

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it.

The man started dragging Matthew down the street, muttering under his breath and flushing when Matthew squeezed his hand back. It was sort of cute.

"Don't worry about it."

"Uhm, I… Uh… I don't even know your name…"

"Gilbert," he grumbled, embarrassed.

"Gilbert, you're, uh… I live in the other direction."

He turned on his heel, bright red, and started dragging him up the street instead. Matthew giggled.

"Sorry."

"No, it's my fault, I should have…"

"How could it possibly be your fault…?"

"But I could have…"

"But you shouldn't have to…"

They paused and stared at each other; slow, awkward smiles stretching across their faces. Gilbert sheepishly swung their clasped hands between them. They started laughing.

"My name is Matthew," he said, brushing the sopping curls back from his face with a smile. He felt so much lighter. It was the first time in a long time that someone had accepted him, just as he was, without disbelief or teasing or snide comments.

It stopped hurting altogether.

"Matthew…" Gilbert let his name slide over his tongue as if he were tasting it. "That's a pretty name. I like it."

Matthew grinned.

"Yeah, me too."


	80. I'm Yours

_This is more of a drabble than anything else, but there was nothing else to say. It was inspired by the song 'I'm Yours' by The Script, which is a fairly fitting song for Prussia, I think. _

**I'm Yours**

"… What are you doing?"

Canada smiled at him, softly, so softly, and continued to trace the lines around his eyes, the wrinkles around his mouth. He carded his fingers through his thinning hair and kissed his forehead.

"Nothing..."

Prussia looked up at him, sitting on the carpet and tucked between his legs. He raised an eyebrow.

"Bullshit," he said decisively, and Canada chuckled lightly, shaking his head. He ran his fingertips over his cheekbones, too sharp, and his lips, chapped and scarred and twisted. His nose, broken and bent too many times.

But when Canada stared at him like that, well…

He felt safe and warm and protected. He felt precious. Important. Canada stared at him, through him, without flinching. He had seen him at his weakest, at his most vulnerable, and embraced him.

"I'm just feeling… Sentimental."

Canada wrapped his arms around his shoulders, leaning forward in the armchair and kissing the top of his head, the curves of his ears, the back of his neck.

"You're barely three thousand years old, that's too young for… This. This nonsense." Prussia grumbled into the sleeves of his sweater as he manhandled him, but he still allowed it. He had never been able to say 'no' to him. "Saccharine, that's what it is. Gross."

"Oh, shush," Canada clucked his tongue affectionately. His eyes twinkled with fondness, and wisdom, and gentle humour. "You like it. Don't lie."

"Fat chance…"

He wound his arms and legs around Canada, petulant and ill tempered, but Canada just laughed. He started plaiting small sections of his hair, until half of his head was covered in short, one inch braids that stuck up in all directions. He giggled at his own handiwork.

They sat like that for a long time, until the ache of sitting on the carpet crept through his joints and settled in his hips. It spread like fire, throbbing and burning, and it must have shown on his face because Canada carefully untangled his hair and pushed himself up. He tottered to the other side of the den and brought back his, ugh, walker.

"I don't want it," Prussia muttered. Canada bent down stiffly and kissed him on the cheek, on the lips. "It's stupid."

"I know," he said tenderly as he guided his hands to the cold metal and plastic. Prussia used it to pull himself forward. He hated, _hated_, that he needed help, but instead of lecturing him, or assuring him, Canada just accepted his frustration as exactly that. Frustration. He never took the complaints to heart, but he listened and nodded his head and tried to understand.

And Prussia loved him even more for it. After five hundred years, he had thought that he could not possibly love Canada anymore than he already did, and every day, Canada proved him wrong. Every day, he found another reason to love him.

And that was worth growing old, as long as he was growing older with him. Together, forever.

"Let's make pancakes. And take a nap. And snuggle."

"We did that yesterday, and the day before," Canada smiled, "and the day before that."

Prussia raised his withered hand to his lips and kissed the wedding band on his finger, scratched and worn and discoloured. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Let's do it today, and tomorrow too. It's a date!"

"Mmm, well, you had me at 'pancakes'."

Prussia smirked.

"You had me at 'hello'."

And after five hundred years, he still knew how to make Canada blush.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_

_I've been stuck in a low for about two weeks now, and I apologize for that. I've been a bit 'elsewhere'. But I'm trying to claw my way back. This chapter is not long but it was difficult to write, to find the motivation and willpower. I can't promise I'll be back immediately, but I am trying._

_Also, old people in love. Is there anything more touching? It is hard to find that tenderness, that patience, anywhere else._


	81. Wild Horses

_This chapter was inspired by the song 'Wild Horses' by the Rolling Stones. I wrote it for a friend of mine, who has been dragged over the coals. I am thinking about you, wolfkinq, and I hope that you are thinking about yourself. You cannot carry the world on your shoulders. I know. I have tried._

**Wild Horses**

Canada crouched beside Prussia, slamming his knees against the upturned stones, and threaded his fingers through his tangled mane. He checked him for cuts and bruises. He checked him for worse. He cried.

"What the fuck did you do?!"

Prussia grinned up at him, weak and stretched thin. He pressed his palm against his heart. The badges and medallions on his uniform clicked and jingled.

"Grenade," he supplied, coughing. Canada covered his hand with his own. He squeezed.

"You're supposed to _duck_," he stressed, laughing between the tears. Hopeless. He was hopeless.

"Oh, right, I always forget that part. I must have missed that bit of training. My bad."

"Fuck you, asshole."

He licked his lips.

"Yes, please."

Canada leaned back on his haunches, not quite far enough to let go, and ran his left hand over his legs. There were tears in his uniform, frayed and dyed red, but he seemed to be in one piece. Unlike his aching, desperate heart.

He reached for the medical kit on his belt, tucked against the curve of his tailbone, and pulled on the gauze with his teeth. He was trembling.

"You're such an idiot, Gilbert."

"Guilty as charged."

"What were you thinking?"

Prussia frowned.

"Not much, really. It went something like 'Matthew', 'grenade', and 'jump', actually."

"I would have ducked. You didn't need to…"

"You didn't see it."

"You shouldn't have pushed me."

He let go of him long enough to wrap the gauze around his thigh, around his forearm, across his chest. He covered the shrapnel. He knew that he did not have the time to dig it out and stitch him back together. He covered it with gauze as if that might make it disappear.

"What else could I have done?" Prussia shrugged helplessly, wincing as he rolled his shoulders. Canada curled around him, breathing him in, and ignored the gunfire and explosions behind him. It was just background noise.

"Anything else," he choked on the plea. "I can't lose you, Gilbert. I can't."

"You won't. It would take more than _that_ to drag me away from you. You know that." He brushed his curls out of his face and tucked them underneath his helmet. He traced his nose, his cheekbones, and kissed him softly. "I'm not going anywhere. Ever."

"… Do you promise?"

Prussia pulled off his gloves and raised his left hand. The engagement ring caught the glint of artillery fire and burning bodies. It sparkled.

"I do."

Canada chuckled, twisted and broken, and wiped the tears from his eyes. He kissed Prussia once, twice, three times for good luck. He threw his arm around him and helped him up.

Prussia hissed and cursed and flinched. He stood up anyway.

Canada kissed him again.

They marched through two miles of churned earth and spent bullets, arms around each other, because there was no other choice.

And they would not have it any other way.


End file.
